Just Breathe
by AMillionMilesAway612
Summary: Clare Edward's isn't quite sure of the role she plays when her dad beats her. All she knows is that he does love her, even if his ways of expressing it are strange. But when things get worse, and even dangerous, can a certain Eli Goldsworthy save her?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey readers! I just want you all to know that this is my first fanfiction EVER. Even though I have had this account for almost a year. Yeah, I'm kind of a loser =p. Well anyway, I just want to let you all know that this story will not be one of those where Clare falls into Eli's arms and he makes everything better. This story is very realistic and Clare and Eli's relationship will begin slowly and continue on gradually. For all you people who are like me and are sick and tired of those "love at first sight" stories (although many of them are quite good), this is the story for you. The beating is also very realistic. Her dad will not come off as some crazy psychopath. In fact, there may be times where you might actually like him! Shocking, but true. I want this story to feel real and something that could really happen. Okay, I'll shut up now.**

I'm not a victim.

I'm not a fighter.

I'm not at fault.

I'm just me.

They're no words to describe how it feels. And it's not because the searing pain is so unconditional that an adjective or two can't live up to my expectations. It really is because there are _no words._ A word represents one thing, one emotion, one place, one time, one anything, and until they create a word that's swallows up a million everything's into itself, I'm left with a wordless case on my hands.

"Get up, Clare." He says, grabbing the corner of my blanket and shrugging it off of me. A wave of cool air overlaps the places where the warm fabric used to cover, and I quickly fix my shirt to cover up the skin plucking out from underneath it.

I open one eye; opening up both would take too much energy. The light hurts and makes the world turn into a blur of sharp yellow and little black dots.

"What time is it?" I ask.

My dad releases my arm and claps his hands together. The noise carves through my ears and I'd rather be listening to nails on a chalkboard. "Time for you to get up," he replies, his voice low and dull. "Come on, school starts in an hour."

School. I forgot about that place. Hallways. Lots of students. Pissed off adults just waiting for the right moment to attack me with lectures. Annoying girls in short little skirts and drugged up bad asses hung over from too much vodka last night, or was it meth? The image of high school rapidly reenters my mind, and I quickly throw my blanket over my face at what I see.

My dad sighs in frustration and shoves my shoulder, although it doesn't have much of an affect through the thick comforter. "Get up now," he orders, "I'm not kidding."

His voice is _that_ way again. Venomous. Straight forward. It cuts through my skin and into my veins and the second he uses it my entire body lurches, knowing I better listen to him, and I better listen to him now. I spring up from my bed and wobble around for a moment. My eyes are almost adjusted the room, but I guess my brain is a couple of steps behind.

I think about speaking, but my throat is so dry I know I won't be able to say much. So I just look at him, blonde hair, fair skin, broad shoulders, dimple right next to his left eye, and mentally plead for mercy. _Go away. Go away._ He's not getting the message. Why isn't he getting the message? I thought family was supposed to have some freaky telepathy thing where they can send messages to each other through thoughts. Or is that just twins?

He scrunches his eyebrows at me, the Switch Gear turning on again. And in the blink of an eye, its purpose is over, and I'm now looking at my hard working, humble, secretly hopeless romantic dad again.

"Good girl," he announces, walking towards my doorway and turning around. He gives me a soft, lopsided smile that means today is going to be a good day. I sigh in relief, rubbing my eyes and opening my mouth to express an over exaggerated yawn.

"I've got too go to work, honey. I'll be home later tonight." He presses his side against the doorway harder and tilts his head to get a better view of me. "I love you so much."

I close my eyes and count to ten. Breathe. Just do it. It's so easy. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat these two steps every second of your life and your guaranteed not to die by suffocating on thin air.

"I love you too."

**Love it? Hate it? Am I talented? Am I way over my head? Let me know through REVIEWS! Isn't that little review button sexy? Well be naughty and tap it!**

**P.S.- If I do not update quickly, please feel free to send me a PM cursing me off and telling me where I need to go. Please do so. I am horrible at updating and keeping a time pattern, so I do need to be pushed. Don't be afraid to be cruel. It lets me know you care! And sorry if the chapters are short, writing 5,000 words kinda scares me and I back off, but only having to write about 700 seems much more relaxing and I'm willing to do it. And if anyone has any suggestions, please either review them or PM me. I promise you, even if I don't use them, I will look at them.**

**-Jenna 3**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello readers! I just want to let you know that I appreciate the reviews, all 3 of them. And I think I did a pretty good job with the posting. 1 day? Not bad! And this chapter is longer than my old one by a good, I think about 100 words? Anyway, I'm iffy on this one. It seems kind of forced and sloppy in my opinion. Let me know what you think. And just to let you know, I am really not very talented at writing beginnings at stories. That is definately my weakness. So if the beginning is not that amazing, please give my story a chance! I promise it will get better.**

I pretend like I don't hear Alli calling me from the end of the hallway. I pretend like everyone else's chatter is blocking out my ears. I pretend like I don't sense her high heels clanking closer and closer to me. I pretend like-

"Clare! Are you deaf or something?"

I turn around and the first things I notice are a.) Her skirt is _way_ too short for school. B.) She's wearing ten pounds too much eyeliner and c.) That even though she drives me insane and kind of resembles a slut, I still love her.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and swallow. "Sorry," I mumble, turning my head around to watch a couple holding hands stroll down the hallway in their own little bubble, "I didn't know you were calling me."

She rolls her eyes, linking her incredibly tan arm with my incredible pale one and pulls me across the sea of fishes- I mean students- and shoves shoulders with a couple of losers who won't move out of her way.

"Do you know who Drew Torres is?" She asks as we round a corner with a bunch of cheerleaders swapping lipstick and practicing dance moves against the lockers.

Drew Torres. Do I know who he is? I think he's a junior. Tall and tan, maybe? He might be in my child development class. I decide to play smart and just tell her of course I know Drew, because I'm really not in the mood to have her spend eight hours explaining what he looks like and then completely forget the punch line.

She pursed her lips and a smile began to crawl its way onto her face. I knew that smile. It was the exact same grin she had whenever she would talk about Johnny. Alli was "in love" again.

"Isn't he amazing? I mean, he's so, I don't know the right word."

"Amazing?"

She throws me an annoyed look and nudges my rib cage. Searing pain shoots up my chest and I clutch my stomach for one painful moment. There's a bruise underneath my shirt, black and blue and possible even yellow, and it's ripping through my body like claws, trying to get out. I push down harder.

Alli notices my awkward stance raises her eyebrows. "Are you okay?" Her voice is hesitant.

I nod my head and slam my eyes shut, all while cautiously tearing my arm off of my shirt. I look down, half expecting to see the bruise on my shirt and open for all the world to see, but all there is is the blue and white plaid of my button down blouse. My whole body releases its panic mode, and everything is back to how it should be.

I choke out a quite yes.

Alli nods her head and opens her mouth to continue speaking. That's the thing about her. Alli really isn't the inquisitive type. Everything and everyone is single layered, one-dimensional. There is never another secret lurking behind the surface.

I guess I should be thankful for that, and I am.

But I'm not.

"I totally have to talk to him," she babbles on.. "But I just don't know how. You can't like go up to a guy like that and-"

Some guy wearing all black crashes into Alli's shoulder and almost knocks her down. I raise my hands up and grasp her back to resist her fall.

Alli turns to the guy, who is just standing there, staring at us. He has these incredibly dark green eyes, almost the color of olives, and they look so exhausted that I'm tempted to lie down on the floor and go to sleep.

Allie begins screaming at him. "Watch it, jerk!"

He shoots daggers at her with his eyes of olive. "You watch it," he mumbles, turning around and walking away.

Alli bends down to pick up her purse that had fallen on the floor during all the commotion. A couple of nearby guys tilt their heads to get a better "view". They begin to whistle, but the look I dodge at them shuts them up.

"I swear to God," she mumbles, and I'm not sure whether or not she's speaking to me or herself, "People like that have no right going out in public. Did you see his shirt? I bet he has a butchers knife in his pocket, or something."

"Haven't you ever heard of the phrase, 'don't judge a book by its cover'?

Alli relieves a frustrated sighed and linked her arm with mine once again. "Of course," she says, "But it's kind of hard not to when the only thing on the cover is black."

**What do you think? I read over it, and it's actually not as bad as I thought it would still be. But I'm not sold yet. I am kind of in a block right now. If anyone has any ideas/tips, PLEASE PM me! And yes, I will have the incredible Adam in this story. I just love him so much. No one is quite like him =) And the Clare/KC/Jenna thing never happened. Clare has never had a boyfriend in this story. And yes, that guy in black may be a certain Eli...**

**-JENNA**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! I apologize for not posting that quick! Oh, but, what's that (looks down), is that a chapter I see? And yet, the longest chapter for this story yet? Oh golly gee, it is! Really, I was writing this story with a wall in my way and suddenly I was washed over with this desire to keep writing. The words came out so naturally and I really feel like I brought the characters (more so Clare) to life here. I have a question guys:**

**Do you guys like the way I add sarcasm and humor to this story?**

**The reason I do this is because I don't want to just show Clare as "the girl who gets beat". I mean, she still is a person, and she still is a teenage girl. I kind of want to make you love her, make you care about her, and the way I make her likable is through her quick-witted attitude. And sure, she may not always show it to others, but she does express it in her own mind. This story won't be some sappy story about a girl who gets hit (sometimes it will) It really will have parts that make you laugh and make you smile. This chapter has a lot of that. Oh, and ia that Adam speaking? OMG, it is Adam! I love that guy, who's actually a girl, but I see him as a guy, even though he really is a girl. **

**Oh, and writersblock777, I still love you :)**

I am currently sitting in my English classroom. Students invade my vision and I have a temptation to take a towel and wipe them all away from my sight. Brown hair, blonde hair, tall, short, skinny, there's all so much to digest in a matter of moments.

Mrs. Dawes, a quick witted, sensible teacher with short brown hair that looks as if it hadn't been watched in five years is standing at the front of the classroom, unknowingly covering up the notes on the board that thirty percent of the students will actually copy down. She's discussing a partner project we're all going to be launching today. Oh joy, another few days of my life spent choking out lines of fake encouragement that secretly mean "Hurry up before I take this pen and shove it down your throat" to some drug addict who can't even read a word that contains more than four letters.

"And so," she continues on, knocking her pencil against the corner of some kid's desk, "You and your partner will be working together to write a one thousand word story on a quote of your choice. Please, don't do some silly Sponge Bob saying, as humorous as that may be. Make it personal, I want to be able to identify who you are," Right, like anyone could be identified in one thousand words, "And the quote has to be school appropriate. Damn and hell are the only cuss words I will accept, got it?"

She starts pairing up random students together, and I shut my brain off until the hearing of my name clicks it back on. I didn't hear who she partnered me up with, so I stupidly look around the classroom as if I just woke up to find myself in some else's bed.

I feel a light poke at my shoulder. "Hey partner." I look up to see a boy, who has skin almost as pale as mine, and soft brown eyes, smiling at me. His nose is a little oddly shaped and his lips are kind of thin, but who am I too judge? He's not the one with the painful "paint-job" on his stomach.

I attempt to mumble a quiet hi, but his unusually high voice cuts me off.

"So I'm guessing you're Clare?"

I nod my head and squint my eyes at him. There's something…something about him. "And you are…"

"Adam," he fills in, stretching out his hand, a strange gesture, and I hesitantly return it. His hand is soft and warm and almost the same size as mine.

The door of the classroom slams shut and everyone throws their heads to face it. Olive Eyed Guy is standing there, with his black trouser on and matching backpack thrown over his shoulder. He looks at Adam and his gaze turns kinder, friendlier, but ices back when he notices me. I don't take it personally, though. It seems like he gives everyone that death glare.

Mrs. Dawes straightens her position and crosses her arms. She begins tapping her foot up and down the way only adults can, the way that means, in words of Michelle Tanner, "You're in big trouble, mister." I doubt that even a pose that serious could shaken the famous (or not so famous. Most people look as if they just saw an alien) Olive Eyed Guy.

"Mr. Goldsworthy," her voice is taunting, daring, and it reminds me all too much of- I close my eyes and count to five. "I'm glad you've finally taken the time to actually come to class. Please, share with us, your reason for being late."

Goldsworthy Olive Eyed Guy rolls his eyes, and he does it in a way that even I feel offended on a personal level. "I dunno," he has a low, deep voice, that's kind of rough and yet smooth all at the same time. It fits with his appearance all too well. I almost laugh out loud at the idea of a guy like him containing a voice like Adam's. "Just thought I'd put on a show and arrive 'fashionably late'." He puts air quotes around fashionably late and strides over towards the desk in front of me. He plops down in the chair as if not every person in the classroom is gawking at him and, on top of it all, proceeds to color his nails with black sharpie.

Mrs. Dawe's looks as if she's about to puke out fury and it only gets worse when he raises his head to meet her eyes, "Please," he says, gesturing towards the entire class, "Don't stop on my watch."

I glance beside me towards Adam, the only acceptance of this guy's deadly glower, and his eyes are sparkling with delight and a smile is blooming onto his not so manly features.

Mrs. Dawes puts one hand on her hip and uses the other one to wipe away non-existing sweat on her forehead. I can practically feel the vehemence coming off that fake sweat. "You are so lucky it's early in the year and I'm assigning an important project today," Is the only thing she's able to choke out between gritted teeth.

She closes her eyes the way I always do and I decide to do the counting for her.

_One_

___Two_

_Three_

Fo-

I guess she doesn't need as much time as I do to calm herself down.

"Well," she says, as if the whole emo-boy-barging –in-with-major-attitude thing didn't just happen, "It seems we have an odd number of students. I guess you'll be working with," her finger gains a life of it's own and waves its away along the sea of fishes- crap- students, until they land on…

Me?

"Adam and Clare," she decides, rushing over her desk and grabbing a piece of paper to jot this information down, "Do you two mind working with Eli?"

Adam says no the same time I say yes. Eli-glad I finally have a name for him- turns around to give me a cocky smirk. Adam opens his mouth to say something, and much to my discomfort, Mrs. Dawes hears me and speaks instead.

"What was that Clare?"

Everyone is looking at me. What if one of them has x-ray vision and can see through my clothes? They'd be looking directly at my bruises. And if anyone did, I guarantee it would be Eli. That would make sense considering what a weirdo he is. Or maybe it would be Adam. I mean, he was awfully nice to me considering I couldn't make out a full sentence without him interrupting. Maybe he was giving me sympathy and I was just too stupid to realize it. I clutch my arms over my stomach the same way I did when I was with Alli and try my best not to cry.

"Nothing," I choke out, looking down at my jeans. I count how many sparkles I can find on my belt and reach six before Mrs. Dawes dismisses the conversation and continues on speaking.

With thirty-seven seconds left on the clock before class comes to a close, the teacher does her best to sum up all the information she forgot to mention earlier on. "You will begin working on this assignment tomorrow. I suggest-more so demand- that each and every one of you look up and print out quotes of your choice," she pauses to let out an unnecessary breath of exhaustion, "Mr. Goldsworthy, please meet me up at my desk so we can talk."

I drop my pen during my rush to get out of class as fast as I can. I'm about to pick it up when a black leather arm swoops in front of me and grasps it instead. Eli meets my height, or a little bit higher, and looks at me with those intense, sad, olive eyes.

"Thanks," I whisper so quietly I don't think he hears me.

Apparently he does hear me because he answers, "No problem. Glad to know you're okay with me working on this project with you."

I blush the color of a stop sign.

I'm walking out the door when Eli bumps shoulders with me and pushes past me, rounding the corner of the hallway and fading out of my sight.

I guess Mrs. Dawes isn't getting that talk.

**I am back in the groove! I will admit, just ask writersblock777, that I do have stages where I just, don't want to write. But right now, that is not the case. And I admit, I am growing to love my characters. I really do love Clare so much right now and I have no idea now. I think thats good because it means I understand her. Or is that just retarted? And it kind of bothers me where Eli and Clare in most stories fall in love and think there meant to be the second their eyes meet, so I kind of spiced it up again.**

**Speaking of spicy, look at that review button! Man, someone's got it going on. Go ahead, hit (on) it, I dare you.**


	4. Chapter 4

**What's up? Thanks again for all the great reviews. Especially the longer ones, or just the ones that have a lot of thought put into them. Those really motivate me to keep writing. Now you may notice that the mood of this story switches very rapidly. I do this on purpose. The reason is because I want to express Clare's feelings. I kind of think her life, during being abused and all, would be like an emotional roller coaster. One moment she could be happy and joyful, but a single word or phrase could remind her of all the horrible memories. This chapter isn't really a happy one. It's not overly depressing, but still kind of shows you how horrible Clare is feeling. **

**I AM WELL AWARE ALLI IS GONE FROM THE SHOW! I cried when she left, btw. She is a slut and an idiot but I love her. And poor Clare just can't get a break! But this does not affect my story. Alli is still at Degrassi in my story! And who saw the preview for Friday's episode? Matching piercings? Controbad (sp?) kissing? And for the the rest of the season- Clare looking like a stripper? She wants to have sex with Eli? What the! And where the heck did Jenna and Sav come from? Like, really? And Jenna's screaming when she was in labor in the preview made my night. I'll shut my fingers up and let you read the story:**

I stare at the marking on my shoulder. It's a sharp red with three bumps grazing along the surface. The dried blood circumferences around it like a protective barrier of unknown danger. I feel a sense relief wash over me knowing that the blood is dried, it had time to dissolve away from the wet and sticky substance it once was. I got through it. I got through it. I got through it.

I always get through it.

My muscle aches from the jagged counter top he thrust me into. His hands against my head left an indent, and although it may not be seen, or even felt, it's there, swimming alongside my brain like a leaf in your pool. I really need a skimmer for my brain to wash out all the horrible memories. I block them out for a matter of time, but something so physically and emotionally strong can crush through any blockade that stands against it.

I don't even remember why he hit me. It wasn't a meticulous reason this time. General, I guess you could call it. A bunch of peculiar objectives most people choose to ignore he piles up onto one another until they form a large enough excuse to hurt me. And he didn't yell when he pushed me. He didn't whisper poisonous words into my throbbing ear as I struggled to push back the tears building inside my eyes. He stayed silent, grunting and occasionally hissing at his frustration of no blood pouring out of my flesh. But when he was done, and I laid there, on the floor, grasping my wound and choking out sobs, he turned towards me, one evil, unfamiliar glance that I knew all too well, and said, "You deserved it."

He's right. I do deserve it. Every punch, every hit, every amount of agony he presses against me. I deserve it all. He's not being unfair, or cruel, like many people would say he is, he's just giving me a taste of my own medicine in a different form. I pour the liquid, and he drops the solid.

Alli doesn't say anything as we walk to the front steps on Degrassi. She's speaking and all, but not saying anything actually worth listening to. I nod my head and throw in an occasional "uh-uh" so just in case for the rare occasion that she flips her mind outside of herself and notices me not listening. I think she's speaking about Drew. But then again, a lot of words could sound like Drew when you're not really paying attention. I mean there's dude, dread, draw, dead….hit, slap, punch, kick.

Shut up, Clare. Just shut up.

"So Clare," she says, opening up the front door and batting her eyelashes innocently, "What do you think?"

"Um, um, um," I hate stuttering. It's a force inside your lungs resisting words to come out of your mouth like they're meant to. But then again, I'm not sure if this is stuttering acting up, or just my brain searching for an eligible answer.

"Cool."

I guess that's a good answer. It's one of those words that can really fit into any situation. Like a wild card in a board game.

Alli laughs, but the way she does it lets me know she doesn't find anything humorous, "I just asked you what you thought of me killing Mr. Simpson. You know, you really suck at listening." Her words aren't harsh or angry, but they have this underlying layer filled with fury.

"Sorry."

She shakes her head and presses her lips into a thin line. "Whatever," she snaps, hoisting her purse up so it lays closer to her neck, "When you're actually ready to be a good friend, call me."

As she stalks off angrily, I know deep down that I really should follow her and make amends. Part of me wants to. But another part of me wants to just get down on my knees and cry to her the reason for my strange behavior. Part of yourself isn't enough. You have to take the parts away and figure out what's still left. I do this, and realize it'd be best if I just let her burn off her rage. Alli tends to get angry with me like this all the time, anyway. She doesn't have enough will power to keep one emotion lasting for long.

People bump into me, a couple of them telling me where I need to go. I stand there in pure clueless ness until I realize I'm lounging in the middle of the main hallway, staring everyone down as the struggle to get to class on time without leaving their friends.

"Your supposed to walk," a voice whispers into my ear. I whip around, half expecting to question my sanity when no one is standing there. But to my relief, or more, my annoyance, Eli is standing there, that smirk still plastered on his face. I wonder if he sleeps with it on. Maybe there's a place in Guinnesss World Records book for longest lasting smirk, and Eli was fighting to win it.

"You know," my voice comes out louder than I expected, and it surprised me. I guess it surprised him too because his eyes widened and he took half a step back, "If you leave that smirk on for too long, I bet it would get stuck on your face."

I don't know what drove me to speak to him like that, but I was in such a crappy mood and he was only making it worse, so I kind of had a reason to.

He smiles, a real, genuine smile. I've never seen it before and it's kind of weird to see it on him. He has a nice smile. Not one of those mountainous grins that stand one thousand feet tall. His is thin, but lengthy, and makes him look not so dangerous anymore.

He copies Alli's movement with his backpack, hoisting it. "I really wouldn't mind that," he replies, "Because my smirk is just so sexy."

He throws it in my face once again and shrugs off. I follow him, well, technically it's not following since he happens to be heading towards the area where my locker is. He turns around a corner the exact same way he did yesterday after English, and I'm a little bit tempted to follow him some more.

But why? It's not like he's interesting or anything.

Just dark, and mysterious, and looks like he's hiding something. Hiding something? Just like me.

Alli ignores me the rest of the day, and honestly, I'm okay with that. The cut on my shoulder is a boulder shoving down on my insanity, and I try to ignore it, but the more I try to ignore it, the more I think about trying to ignore it. But no one's suspected anything yet. I'm wearing a quarter sleeve shirt so there's now way it could slide up and expose the hideous marking. I can't help but rub it constantly, so I decide to rub my other shoulder to make it look like I was just working out real hard at the gym. I have good tactics, and there's really no way they could fail.

But it doesn't matter how well I hide it from the rest of world. Because the truth hits me in the gut everyday, harder than my dad ever could, even with the most outrageous fury he's ever felt. It knocks the wind out of me, it shuts my brain off, and races my blood so hard it goes cold as ice. The truth never stops, it never hides behind the lies because lies are just for the people around you. And I resist it with all my might and all my will, but in the end it's not that much at all. I lose an ounce of strength every time my father's fist connects with my stomach. And I question how much I have left, or sometimes if I have any left at all.

I need someone who's so strong, who has thousands and thousands of strength points. Someone who has the kindness and courage to give some to me. Even if it's just one, that's all I want.

I just need someone. Someone at all.

**And just to let you know, I will not be one of those people who's like, "I won't update unless I get _ reviews!" I just hate when people do that. However, to thank me for my kindness and show me your appreciation, you could just happen to review? Hmmmm. Maybe... Possibly...**

**Also, as you see, I do not get into that much detail about how her father beats her. This really isn't what the story is about. The story is about how being beaten affects Clare. It's more the emotional side of abuse rather than the physical side. I will however, explain some of it. And Adam will be a main character. Like I said, I am totally fed up with him! (But Eli is still my future husband)**


	5. Chapter 5

**First off, I would like to apologize for not updating quickly. I was in kind of a slump and today I had family coming over all day and I've just been really busy. But still, I should have made time to write, even if it was only 5 minutes. This chapter was originially supposed to be longer, but I just thought it ended the way it should be, so I didn't want to force more. As you can tell, in this chapter, I really bring Adam into the story. He is going to be a HUGE character throughout the entire story, so I hope you all like him. I think in the next chapter I might show some of Clare's home environment. Let you get to see her dad a little bit more. It's very difficult because I want you to see a good side of her dad, but I also want the story to still revolve around the beating. What I'm thinking about doing is just straight out showing her dad when he's not being so bad, and have Clare explain what the beating was like. Later on though, much later, I probably will have it so you truly see one of the abuses.**

"Did you get a quote?"

Adam's voice cuts through my train of un-thoughtfulness. I turn my head robotically to face him, the people and desks around him a stirring blur of images coming down together into one. I forgot to get the stupid quote because I didn't write it down. I write everything important down, because my mind is always too full of nothing to carry anything at all without support.

"I, uh," I'm not quite sure what to say. Sound stupid and saying no or say yes and end up sounding even more stupid when that yes transforms into a no.

"No," I finally mumble, staring down at my hands, "I completely forgot."

"Have no fear," he swings open his binder and pulls out at least three pages worth of papers, "Adam's quotes are here."

For once I laugh. The sound is foreign and rare and I swallow it up to digest so I never forget what it sounds like. My laugh is light and girly, and if I pictured it on an Electromagnetic Spectrum it would have really short wavelengths.

Eli turns to face me. "You laughed?" He says, his voice sopping with bewilderment, real or fake I can't tell. He has this sarcastic side that's so pinned down it's impossible to tell if he's actually being sarcastic or not. "That's a first."

My face turns red again and the heat carried by the sun dives down into my face.

"Will it be last?"

I don't speak at all. That question is so bizarre and strange that there really is no answer to it. I guess Eli realizes he won't get an answer because his eyes roam to Adam and he raises his eyebrows at all the papers, "Dude, we were supposed to get one or two quotes, not an entire novel."

Adam shrugs. "I know, but I like having choices."

"Choices are overrated."

Again with the odd comments. Eli's like some human fortune cookie that spits out "words of wisdom" without a breath of hesitance.

Eli grabs Adam's papers and lines them up side by side along the cracks in between our conjoining desks. He picks up a single page with about three quotes on it and lays them out in front of Adam's so they're all facing us. "First comes first," he states, nodding towards Adam as if I don't exist, "What kind of quote should we do."

Adam's eyes light up with fireworks of joy and he begins bouncing on the chair like a little toddler, "Ooh! I am so glad you said that! I organized all the quotes into different categories. There's happy, sad, life, romantic, and some others I forget. I say we do this quote." He scrambles his hand along the army of papers until one finally pleases him. He holds it up to his face, clearing his throat as though he is preparing for the most important speech of his life. "'Happiness is not the absence of problems but the ability to deal with them.'"

An image of my father races across my brain so quickly I wonder if it was ever there. How this quote could remind me of him, I have no idea. But it does, in it's own little unidentified way, and I feel kind of scared knowing anything at any moment could bring his presence into my mind.

Before we even have a moment to give our opinion, Adam shovels up a couple more pages and begins frantically searching them with his eyes.

"Okay, if you don't like that one, how 'bout 'A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.'"

I see my dad again.

"'The key of change, is to let go of fear.'"

And again.

'"False friends are worse than open enemies.'"

And again.

"'Screaming is bad for the voice, but good for the heart.'"

And again.

"'Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart, or burn down your house, you can never tell.'"

I'm slapped across the face with torture. This pain is grinding inside my chest, ripping open every vein, every cell, everything that defines my existence. My throat is closed up, getting tighter and tighter every time I try to breathe. Just breathe. God, please just let me breathe. I open my mouth, but an invisible lace seals it shut, cutting my lips open as blood filled with agony pours down my skin. I see fire and hear screaming and smell smoke and taste rotting metal.

"Yeah, yeah, I like that one."

I'm slapped across the face the opposite way, this time with realization. I look around the room, teenagers sitting on desks and talking to each other as though hell had never broken loose. The world is suddenly bright, so white and piercing my eyes burn. My entire brain slows to a stop. A fender bender. It was just a fender bender. I'm not really hurt.

But I'm still shaking.

Adam glances over at me and takes a double take. My hands are clenched into fists, I realize, and my breathing is so jagged and restless you'd think I was having a heart attack. "Clare," he gently pushes my shoulder, "Clare, are you okay?"

I shake my head. I don't want to be here. I feel sick and scared and alone. Nausea is climbing up my throat but I don't worry too much because I hadn't eaten anything all day.

My voice is raspy and scrawny when I speak. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

Adam shrugs it off, taking a pen and circling the chosen quote. But Eli keeps looking at me, his face, or rather his eyes, filled with such astonishment and wonder it stiffens my breathing all over again. His mouth opens up slightly, like he wants to say something, and I can tell my the tension coming off of him that it means something. But he shakes his head, and I can practically hear the mumbling of words he's screaming to himself. Something about "don't do it", or "it doesn't matter". I try not to think about too much. How can I decipher something that's not even there?

"I'm kind of lost guys," Adam confesses, "What are we supposed to be doing here? Writing an essay on the quote?"

"No," Eli says, grabbing the paper from Adam and rereading over the quote again, "We're supposed to write a story that proves the quote to be true. Representing it, or something."

Adam smiles and nods his head in understanding. "Ohh, I get it. So, what kind of story should we do for this quote. Clare, do you have any ideas? I've heard you're a good writer."

How the heck would he know I'm a good writing? But then I think of Alli, and how she loves to show off hers and everyone she's close to qualities. She probably oh-so-humbly explained to the school my "wonders with words" and how I "could practically sell a novel by the time I was twelve".

The idea of sounding stupid and not knowing something again drives me insane, so I dodge it by calmly saying, "What was the quote again? I want to analyze it some more."

"'Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart, or burn down your house, you can never tell.'"

My breathing hitches, and I focus every ounce of strength I have on keeping myself calm. These few words are what sent my world spinning for no reason at all. I close my eyes and don't count at all. There is no telling how long it will take to resist hell from overlapping Earth once again.

I'm fortunate and everything around me stays in place.

"I'm not really sure, actually. There's a lot you can do with this quote."

Eli nods his head in agreement. "Clare's right. There is a lot you can do."

"Maybe…" Adam bites his lip and turns on an intense thinking face, "We could do a comparison. Like one love the character has is good, and another is bad."

My writing instincts kick in and suddenly the words coming tumbling out of my mouth like an avalanche. "No, that won't work. This is a short story. If we have that many people in it, we won't have enough time to really understand each individual character. Plus, that's so on the surface. We need to dig down deeper."

Adam looks stunned, and I can't blame him. I don't think he's ever heard me say more than five words in one breath. I look over at Eli, and he remains cool and content as ever, not affected at all by my sudden change in personality. "Well okay, Oh Great One, what do you suggest we write about?"

Thinking of a story idea is like searching through a maze. There are countless ways you can go, millions of twist and turns you can choose to follow, but there's only one way that leads to the perfect destination.

"Maybe we can do a transformation. Have the love between two characters start off perfectly, but as time goes by, the beauty of the love they have turns into hurt and pain."

The two boys turn to look at each other, sharing a secret grin I don't understand. Their attention heads back towards me, and in unison, they both agree. "Definitely."

Class ends then, and we don't have any time to begin working on our actual story. I head out into the flooded hallways, watching as Eli and Adam walk together, side by side, before they rip apart and head off in different directions.

Grabbing a few books at my locker, I grab my "To Do" journal and on the "October 17th" page, underneath _finish world history report_, I jot down _begin writing again_.

Someone walks up next to my locker door, and the second I look down to see skinny jeans and three inch heals I know who it is. I shut the door and adjust the pile of books in my arms.

"Listen," Alli sighs, twirling around a loose strand of hair in between two of her fingers. "I'm really sorry about yesterday, okay? It's just I really like Drew and I wasn't in the world's best mood, and I guess I took it out on you."

"It's fine," I say, turning around and heading off to biology."

Alli catches up to me. "Don't tell me you're still mad."

"I'm not mad."

She grabs the inside of my elbow and whips me around to face her. "Then why are you being so…short with me?"

The honest look in her eyes makes me regret being such a bitch to her. I tune down my tense posture and try my best to sound as comforting and forgiving as possible. "Alli, it really is fine. I promise you, I'm not mad."

She scrunches her eyebrows, and I know I was in too deep to get out that easily. "Are you positive you're not mad? Or is something else bothering you."

"I'm not mad."

"So is something bothering you?"

_Yes,_ I wanted to scream at her, _My dad hits me, okay? He hits me and he punches me. You don't believe me? Here, roll up my shirt and look at the bruises, and then tell me you think I'm lying._

"Nope," I pop the p, "Just a huge exam due tomorrow. You know how I get with those kind of things."

Alli stretches a huge smile and gives me a girly hug. I'm not quite sure how a hug could be considered girly, but Alli has this way of making everything gain a girly trait.

"Great. I'm so glad that's over with. Do you want to The Dot tomorrow? We could split a Triple Chocolate Meltdown!"

Something in the universe lightens up, and for a split second I actually feel normal. I give her a half smile.

"Absolutely," I say.

**Sooo...whatya think? Good? Bad? Please review! I love hearing your opinions. I was kind of feeling bad for beating Clare up (excuse the pun) all the time, so I let this chapter off on a good note.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Once again, I am soooo sorry for my poor updating skills. It's just school is very stressful and I had like five projects/essays to finish and I just had no time to write. But on the bright side, this chapter is very much Eclare! And writing this chapter, I fell in love with Eli all over again. I really love him in this scene. And Clare's dad is in it, but not quite as you would think.**

**Okay, who saw the promo for next week? And who almost died when Clare goes, "I'm losing everything I love!" And Eli says, "Not me." I'm just like, that's the sweetest thing I've ever heard in my entire life! But I can't believe she says "I want to spend the night with you." Eli's face is priceless. And Fadam? I think they could work. Fiona is pretty screwed up, so she shouldn't judge Adam. But if they do get together in the show...that must be one awkward kissing scene...**

My stomach clenches the second I hear the front door rattle open. My pen slips between my fingers and hits the ground with a thud. I wait, I wait and wait for the moment I look into his eyes and know if I'm going to be spending the night in a shaky sleep, or wiping blood off the floor.

The clock ticks, synchronizing its rhythm with the beating of my heart, and a moment that goes by this slowly never moved so fast.

"Clare," I hear him say, and he comes into my view. He's holding his briefcase on his left side, which is good. His shoes are already off. Good. The look in his eyes, one of unconditional love and devotion makes me forget, just for a moment, what I'm resisting in the first place. Good. I'm just thankful everything is actually going good.

Bad.

"Hey sweetie," he strides on over to me, placing his briefcase against the counter- the counter he slammed me into- and kisses my forehead. His tie brushes across my face, along with his breath, which contains the scents of mint and leather. "I ordered pizza on the way home. It should be here in about ten minutes. I'm going to head upstairs and take a quick shower, okay?"

I nod my head, bending down to pick up my pen. I almost hallucinate a black leather arm swooping down in front of mine, and when I reach my head up the air feels cool without his warm breath.

The running of warm water roaming along the pipes in my house begins the second I finish my history homework. Grabbing my "To Do" list, I cross the phrase out and notice a group of sloppily written words hiding underneath.

_begin writing again_

I used to write all the time. There was this journal I would carry around school. It was dark night blue with yellow stars painted all over it. Words covered almost every page of that little notebook, some of them making sense, others nothing but a clutter of emotions I couldn't stand to hold inside myself anymore. It wasn't a novel, or fanfictions, or even useful information I could use later on in my life. It was just me, and my life and my secrets, devouring the paper until it weighed a thousand pounds.

Throwing away that notebook felt like shooting someone I love. It took all the will power, all the dread and fear inside me to release it into the garbage can. Maybe I should have kept it, since it was really the only thing in this screwed up world that kept me sane, but the fear of someone opening it and staring my soul in the face was so fierce it forced me to give up my everything.

A knock at the door awakens me from whatever it was I was just in. The pizza guy is a pimple faced college student who spelt like grease and smoke, and I feel so bad for the poor kid I give him double tip.

I carry the pizza inside, balancing the cardboard box in my palm like it's worth a billion dollars. The water has shut off and I can hear my dad pacing around his room above me.

He comes downstairs a few minutes later, his dirty blonde hair looking brown from being wet. He places himself in the chair beside me, ripping off a piece of pizza from the pie and blowing on it before putting it in his mouth.

I try to eat it. I really do. I stick the food into my mouth, and I chew, crushing the crust and cheese and sauce between my teeth. But every now and then, when I get to the most complicated stage of swallowing, something closes up inside of me, and the food is left to rest inside my lungs. I'm waiting for the moment I begin to choke, and maybe a small part of me is hoping, but every time I open my mouth to suck in a breath, oxygen races down my throat and swerves around the food, crushing through the barrier for one, unwanted moment.

My dad wipes pizza sauce off his chin with a napkin. He places it on his lap and looks at me, "How was school?"

I rip a piece of cheese hanging by a thread off of my pizza and put it on the opposite side of the plate. "School was fine," I say. "I finally got that history report finished."

"Do you think you did well?"

Of course. Of course I do. No, I'm not lying. I always do well in school. I'm just perfect. But don't be proud of me, dad. Don't think I'm super smart or an over achiever or anything like that. Don't you dare shove that crap into your head. People who are perfect don't have to try to be perfect. I work my butt off everyday just to please you. I hold so much weight on my shoulders sometimes I think I might break just so you won't throw me into my nightstand again.

"Yes."

"Well good, then," he slides his chair out and stands up, readjusting his hair so it lays behind his forehead. When he rests his hand on my shoulder I stop breathing, and I don't even attempt to try to breath because I know the task will be impossible. Anxiety is creeping up my spine and I use all my force to defend against it.

"I'm so proud of you, sweetheart," he tells me, and for one quick second I actually believe him, actually let my guard down and allow myself to feel accepted. But then reality shows up in my view and the wall is back.

He lets go of me and I feel as though I've woken up from a nightmare. There's sweat underneath my knees and on the back of my neck. Sweats easy to deal with, though. You wipe it away and it's gone. It's the reason for it that's so terrifying.

I grab plastic wrap from the drawer and begin tossing the left over pizza in it. At the same time my dad is standing next to me, his shoulder touching mine as we washes our plates. It should feel natural doing this, working together to reach a common goal, even if that goal may be small, but something so normal keeps my heart thudding against my chest so much it actually hurts.

He tells me he's going to go upstairs and read for a while and that I should finish whatever homework isn't done. I tell him all my homework is finished and he rolls his eyes, saying attitude is never necessary.

He dries off the dishes.

I stick the last of the pizza in the fridge.

He throws out the box.

I lean against the counter.

He gives me a smile and jogs upstairs.

I breathe.

I wake up the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing. When I look at the caller ID and see Alli's name plastered on the screen, I almost don't answer. Her perkiness is way too much for me to handle at- I look at the clock- 11:45 in the morning.

"Hello?" My voice is groggily. The world is still a vision coming into complete view and I can't contemplate everything all at once.

"Wakey, wakey, sleepy head. I've tried calling you like twenty times. I almost thought you were dead."

"Well I'm alive," I say, "What do you want?"

"Wow, someone's not a morning person.

I roll my eyes and make my bed while clutching my phone between my ear and shoulder. They make it look so easy on TV, but there is about five times where I must frantically save my phone from a disastrous fall of shoulder to floor.

Alli and I agree to meet at The Dot for a brunch in twenty minutes. I don't pay much attention to the clothes I'm wearing. All I know is that they cover up the skin that needs to be covered and none of my bruises are showing.

When I arrive at The Dot Alli isn't there yet. She texts me saying that her parents need help with something so she'll be a few minutes late. I tell her it's fine, the usual procedure whenever she shows up late for anything

I sit down at a table in the corner and watch people pass by until a waiter asks what I want to eat. I order the first thing on the menu- an egg, bacon, cheese croissant- and continue watching people as they travel along the street. So far the most interesting thing I've seen is two guys almost get into a full out fist fight, and a little boy being screamed at by his mother for running in the middle of the street.

Someone sits down next to me, and when I turn around I expect to see Alli. But I'm faced with olive eyes and an annoying smirk.

"Waiting for a hot date?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't you have something better to do than follow me around?"

Eli twirls a skull ring on his finger, and it takes me a minute to realize I'm mimicking him with my purity ring. I quickly pull my hand away.

"Not really," he laughs when some guy trips on his own feet and almost falls while trying to impress a cute girl. "But just for record, I'm not following you."

"Oh really," I raise my eyebrows at him, "Then why do you always show up wherever I am?"

He mocks me by raising his eyebrows as well, only the way he does it is much more impressive. "Small town."

"Oh?"

"Yep," he leans in closer, so his dark hair is fanning over my face. His breath is hot and moist and makes my skin feel like fire. "Or maybe it's just fate."

I try my best to conceal my nervousness by leaning away from him, but ultimately fail when I realize the rapid pace of my breathing.

We sit in silence, both our eyes ghosting over the restaurant and absorbing every face, every table, and every smell as though we had nothing left. I'm not sure why I don't tell him to leave, but I think it may be because I'm lonely and silent is sanctuary, especially when you're with someone else.

The waiter arrives with my food and places it on the table. The croissant is too thick for my liking, but I decide to keep my mouth shut and just give him a thankful smile. He glances over in Eli's direction, and he looks aggravated. I guess waiters don't like doing double takes.

"Can I get you anything?" Yep, he's definitely angry.

Eli smirks again. He doesn't stop looking at me until he's finished speaking. "I'll have the same thing she's having," he puts one of his fingers, the one with the shiny skull ring, up in the air so the tip of it is facing the ceiling, "But lay off the egg."

Our waiter is wearing the exact same expression Mrs. Dawes wore when Eli first arrived in English class. Anger, frustration, but most of all, bewilderment. The way Eli acts around people, it's as though he's the poster boy for the slogan "what you see is what you get".

When Tad- I finally figured out what the sloppy writing on his nametag was- walks away, I throw a baffled expression at Eli. "I never said you could stay."

He shrugs, making himself comfortable in the chair, "You never said I couldn't stay, either."

"Okay," I state, "You can't stay."

"Too late," he chuckles to himself and checks his watch, "Two minutes is the max amount of time you have to kick me out. Looks like you're half a minute over due. Poor you."

"Poor me," I agree, "But when Alli gets here, I want you out. Got it?"

His eyes fall to floor and he shakes his head with an emotion I can't quite read. "But what if my food isn't ready?"

"I'll tell them to deliver it to you."

I notice Alli standing on the side of the road, staring down at her phone and texting intently.

"I see Alli," I take my finger and point to the door, "Looks like it's time for you to go."

"Damn," he mumbles, and I almost think he means it. He grabs his wallet and pulls out a couple of dollars.

"Seven dollars for the food," he puts down two bills, "One for tip," and another, "And this," he holds a quarter up and grabs my hand, placing it in my palm, "Is for your lovely company," he closes my fingers around the quarter and stands up to leave.

I bite my lip to suppress a smile. It's nearly impossible, so I decide to mask it with words, "Twenty-five cents? That's all I'm worth?"

He smiles. It's that real smile that I rarely ever see. "I would have given you more," he shoves his hands in his pockets, "But that's all I had left."

He leaves the moment Alli enters. She turns back to look at him a second time with wide eyes. And when she strides over to me, and notices all the money and a cheesy grin played on my face, she grows curious.

"What did I miss?" She asks, whipping her head back and fourth a few times from me to the door where Eli just was.

I place my hand in my lap, clutching the quarter for dear life. "Nothing," I say, still holding my smile, "Nothing at all."

**You know the drill. Review. Tell me what you think. Your thoughts on Eli? Don't worry, it will be sad. Right now is kind of a happy phase, because honestly, poor Clare is just being bashed on on the show! I mean my god, how much torture can they put one character through on the show? I just want to give that adorable little girl a hug =) And I also just want to give that sexy bad boy a kiss ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello readers. I am really sorry for the tardy update, but school has been brutal. By the time I open up word to continue this story, I'm too tired to keep my eyes open. I actually wrote a large portion of a chapter before, but it sucked so bad I deleted it. I began writing this, and I thought it sucked, until I read it over and over again and realized it's actually good. I had to revise A LOT, but that's not bad, right?**

**Okay, who saw the new promo. Only 3 episodes left? What the french toast is that all about? And who thinks Clare and Eli are going to "do it"? I hope they don't, I love how Clare is pure. And who thinks Eli is a hoarder? I do! But this is their last main episode until February (at least I think) =( So they better leave off on a good note. I am so sick and tired of them being bashed on with all this crap. The endless drama is taking over their amazing relationship. And by the way, I am officially in love with Adam and Fiona! Screw Drew! Heyyy, that should be a fan group =)**

I try my best to focus on the words running along the page of my World History book. But the more I try to understand the jumble of letters, scrambling them together into anything that makes sense, the more I feel my sanity gliding away. Who cares when Abraham Lincoln was assassinated?

April 14th, 1865.

Who cares who the president after him was?

Andrew Johnson.

Who cares about anything?

Not me.

I shut my book. Attempting to absorb information that will be rinsed out of my memory in a matter of minutes did not seem appealing. Instead, I cross my arms on the table and dip my head inside of them. My skin is warm and the only thing I can see is darkness. Images flash around my brain but don't reach my eyes, although that doesn't seem to fail them from becoming all the more vivid. I see the crowded hallways of the school. I see the light speckles of foundation on my dresser from this morning. I see words, letters, messages, blurred away from contemplation with droplets of water. The ink turns smeared, stretching along my mind like rubber bands.

I see my mother, or what I suppose she was like. I bet she had blonde hair. Long and wavy, the kind that cascades down a woman's shoulders and gives her the glow of an angelic princess from the fairytales. Indeed, I suspect her voice was smooth like velvet, the voice people want, that floats through the air in pure bliss.

But why, I keep screaming to myself, do I see her as such a simulation of perfection? She's everything but. She's drowned in mistakes, falling beneath the surface of them all and floating back up with no pulse left. She walked away, allowing fear and apprehensiveness to take over what she could have given me. Courage, she may have held, but never took the knowledge, or rather, faith, to pay any attention to it. The going got tough, and she got going.

I shake the thoughts away. Picturing her in my mind…it makes me all too aware of what I don't have. A mother. And it somehow yells in my face of what I do have. An abuser. I don't have what I want, and I what I do have, I don't want.

No. No. No. Stop it. I do want my dad. I love him and he loves me. He tells me all the time. I matter. I'm wanted. It's just I'm stubborn, and I don't absorb information well, previously exhibited by my lack of successful studying. He has no choice but to go to great lengths to send me a message.

Yes, that's it. Keep telling yourself that.

I walk into English ten minutes later. I got caught up staring at thin air so I was one of the last people to enter the room. I scurry to my seat, concealing the heated blush on my face with my hair. Adam is reading a comic book and Eli is intertwining his fingers together, over and over and over again.

Mrs. Dawes claps her hands together. Adam and I jolt in our seats, setting our attention on her, but Eli continues playing with hands, completely oblivious to the world around him.

"Today," she announces, "You will be truly beginning your assignment. You must all make an outline of your story before you begin it."

I don't believe in outlines.

"I don't believe in outlines, Mrs. Dawes."

I turn my head towards Eli. He's still gazing at his hands with such a bare expression I question if he spoke at all. However, when I see Mrs. Dawes squinting her eyes down towards the boy in black, I realize questioning myself would be a waste of time.

"Any why is that Eli?"

Still no expression, what so ever. "Because, outlines are just so, I don't know, planned out."

"And why is that a bad thing?" Mrs. Dawes fires at him.

Eli settles his hands down comfortably in his lap, his fingers still laced together. "It's like a limitation for your imagination. When you make an outline, you feel like you cannot go beyond what the outline says. It holds you back from your own capability. Now I understand some people like it, but I, personally don't."

"Well fine," Mrs. Dawes runs a shaky hand through her greasy hair. She points towards Adam and I, the same way she did when we were chosen to work with Eli. "Do you two believe in outlines?"

Adam shrugs and continues reading his comic book. When the teacher's eyes fall on me, I look at Eli, the annoying smirk played along his face once again. A fire builds up in the pit of my stomach and I clench my fists together, shooting daggers at him with my eyes. "Yes, I do."

I lied. It's stupid. I hate outlines. They're disgusting, vile, and so irrelevant. They tie around your potential for using your imagination and choke it. Yet, I went against all my beliefs and said the complete opposite. All to anger some guy I don't even care about.

Mrs. Dawes smiles at me, and the way she does it makes me feel like a robotic doll set up for pleasing everyone around me. As if I'm a dog who did her trick, now deserving a gesture of encouragement for my expected, I mean, appreciated, work.

"Well," she says, "I guess that means you must complete the outline. I apologize Eli, but the instructions, and Ms. Edwards, says so."

Eli sucks in his bottom lip, signifying that he honestly does not care. There's not one sign of defeat, embarrassment, or sheer anger on his face.

The fire ignites again. Why isn't he mad? He should be glaring at me by now, cursing me off in his brain and maybe accidentally shooting one off out loud.

The work begins, and everyone stands up to get with their groups. Eli, Adam, and I set up our desks the same way we did the other day. Adam pulls out a notebook and settles it on his desk, ripping a page out and jotting down our names up at the top.

"Okay," he places the pen down, "How should we start it?"

"We need a character, first," Eli spins the paper around so it's facing him. The tip of his pencil is in between his teeth as he thinks. "What about, a guy. Twenty five years old. His name could be Munro Chambers." **(a/n: I couldn't help myself!)**

I proceed to let the name slip off my own lips, as though testing to make sure it sounded okay coming from me. It does, so I nod my head in unison with Adam. Eli gives us a small grin, writing down notes about our no longer anonymous character.

Adam speaks up. "What about a setting?"

"No setting," I say, "I found that when you don't give a story a setting, it makes it feel closer to the readers. Like the experience is happening right in their next door neighbor's house."

Adam seems pleased by my answer, but at the same time confused. "How do you know so much about writing?"

I'm about to answer, saying something along the lines of "not sure", but Eli cuts me off. He flashes his eyes back and forth between Adam and I. "You don't really 'know' about writing, Adam. You just kind of have it in you. Obviously, Clare has writing in her blood."

We begin gradually transforming Munro Chambers before our eyes. He seems like a well enough guy; a local editor for the town's newspaper, spends most of his free time writing or reading at the Dunkin Donuts next to his apartment, keeping quiet because trust has always been an on edge aspect of his life ever since his mother had cheated on his father and ruined their family. I can feel layers landing on top of each other, different facets that make him who he his being peeled away by the contrary. I guess that's how most people are. Made up of a million different pieces, some of them not fitting well together, forcing that person to be faced with the decision of which trait to pull out for use during certain situations. Someone who is a total genius can make the biggest mistakes of all. Someone who seems dark and cruel can really have a heart of gold beaten by a traumatic event. A sweet, loyal, good-natured man can actually beat his own daughter.

Eli is bobbing his head to an isolated tune trapped inside his head. "So," he tells us, "We got our man Munro down. Now all we need is a story."

Adam groans, covering his face with his hands. "That shouldn't be hard," he murmurs sarcastically.

Eli looks at me, "Got any ideas, Ms. JK Rowlings? After all, Adam and I did just do all the brainstorming. It's only fair if you contribute to the work as well."

"You never passed me as the 'fair' type."

"You never passed me as the pain in the ass type."

My eyes roll with a mindset of their own. Ideas pass between my ears, junk ones thrown into a garbage can, and considerable ones placed on invisible shelves for later revising.

"Maybe…" I let my voice trail off, picking words out of my throat to place on my tongue. "We could have him fall in love with this girl."

They both moan and shake their heads, wiping the idea away.

I'm not giving up that easily. "No, no, stay with me. And she's kind of a bad ass. You know, drugs, and drinking, and partying, and for once Munro feels like he has this rebellious side to him. Like his life is changing right in front of him and he doesn't want it to end. Keep in mind that he really does love her. But throughout time, his life kind of starts spiraling out of control. He loses his job and can't make rent, so his girl sells drugs and gives him some money. He seems grateful, but before he knows it, he's fallen to pieces with nothing left. It could end with him leaving and coming back to the quote. Obviously, we'll add more to it."

They consider my idea, glancing over at each other for either an apprehensive approval or definite rejection. I can feel their opinions knocking back and forth from side to side, considerations clouding over their judgment. Once that's all over and done with, they look at me and nod their heads.

"You impress us once again," Eli says. He places an elbow on Adam's shoulder and glances at the clock. "We only have a few minutes left, and I don't feel like working anymore. Let's just relax."

Adam stands up and walks to the teacher's desk asking for permission to use the restroom. Eli and I watch, our gazes chasing him as he stalks across the classroom. Our eyes contain the same naïve and tentative aspects they had during the time we watched people pass by at the Dot.

It took me a few moments to notice Eli's heavy stare upon me. When I turn to meet his gaze, he sharpens his stare, seeming to look right past my skin, my bones, my soul. I feel uncomfortably naked and exposed. The feeling grows in the pit on my stomach until I can't take it anymore.

"What?" I snap.

"What?"

"You know what."

"What exactly?"

"What were you doing?"

"I don't know, what was I doing?"

He's driving me crazy. Every word sends me into a new phase of insanity. Pins and needles arise on my skin from head to toe, making me shiver.

I spin myself around, well, as much as I can on the chair, so that I'm facing the wall. My arms are crossed over my chest and I mindlessly hush my urge to scream.

"A little third grade, don't you think, Edwards?"

The funny stops there. The sarcasm is no longer cute. The smirk has lost all charm it once had. Whatever Eli and I had shared during the Dot- if we even shared anything to begin with- had flashed away in an instant, that instant made up of his ability to be an idiot. We are not friends, not acquaintances, not- once again, I'm caught up in a struggle to find an appropriate word. But Eli is my enemy; the only emotion I'm capable of feeling towards him is hatred.

"Shut up, okay?" The words don't come out with any sense of humor or kindness. They are cold, colder than ice, sharp as an icicle itself. His expression quickly changes, turning from boastful to uneasy in a matter of one second.

"Whoa," he puts his hands up in mock-or maybe it's real- surrender, "I'm sorry, okay? I was just joking."

I use my hand to slam my binder shut. I place them against the desk, hard and firm, making sure no hesitation appears. "Yes, I know, Eli. Joking is all you ever do. I bet it's all you can do. Just humor me, will you? Try to be serious for once in your life."

Half of me expects him to crack another joke, the other half waiting for him to apologize again. But he surprises me by squinting his eyes, studying my own with the same intensity as before. Only this time he's not just studying, he's searching, searching for an unknown treasure that I'm not even sure exists.

"I, uh," he fiddles with his hands, dropping his gaze to the floor. His voice is weak and fragile, something I never thought could exist in someone like Eli, "I gotta go. See you tomorrow."

He stands up and walks out of the classroom. No asking permission from the teacher, no excuse as to why he has to leave so suddenly. He just gets up and walks away, staring at the ground the whole time, avoiding me at all costs.

Adam comes back a moment later, and I think he asks me where Eli went. I don't answer. For some reason, I lost all capability to speak. My heart is shattering against my chest. My breathing is raggedy and uneven. My vision becomes blurry, like the world is spinning too fast for me to keep up with it.

I feel like someone has placed something inside of me, and at the same time, taken it away.

**See that review button?- it's for you =) **

**I just have to say I was sooo happy with all the reviews I got since my last chapter. It was the most I've ever gotten! I love my fans soooooo much! You guys are much better than my real friends, who are too caught up in who-likes-who to even pay any attention to my writing. But hey, that's just teenagers.**

**I say we shoot for the stars and attempt to reach 60. PS: I am currently watching Degrassi this very moment. It is "pre-gay" Riley and when he calls Fiona a bitch. Literally, that just happened right now! Fiona- "We don't talk anymore, okay?" I am sorry, just felt entitled to post that. =)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey. I know this chapter is really short and you probably all hate me for it, but believe me when I say this scene needed it's own chapter. This is a pretty dark scene, and it's ermmmmmm semi-violent, but I don't go into too much detail with it.**

**I have a question. Has anyone else ever tried to log on, but when you go onto the Login screen, the "Are You Human" thing is there, but with no box to decipher the words? That has been happening to be all the time (luckily not know), and it is driving me bananas. (Yes, I do say bananas, I also say "What the french toast?" and "Dosh DoodleCakes" My own secret language ;)) If anyone has any idea how to fix it, I will love you for all of eternity, read your story, and give a really long comment! (I always give SUPER LONG COMMENTS btw)**

Today is a bad day. I can feel it. The way his feet crush against the hard wood flooring, the way everything in the house curls up inside themselves the moment he opens the door, the way I can longer tell the difference between black and white. All the signs are there. Closing my eyes and counting until the numbers fade away into my subconscious mind, I hold onto the little amount of strength that's still within my reach. His footsteps grow louder, heavier, deadlier, their mass pressing on the tension in the air until it's weighing me down. Rage travels out of him and possesses every object in the kitchen.

Just breath, I keep telling myself. It's so easy.

His shoes are on. Brief case is being held by his right hand. His eyes are those of an enemy in war, holding a gun and waiting for the perfect moment to shoot.

Breathing may be easy. But looking into those eyes and suppressing the urge to collapse on the floor and scream isn't.

He slams his briefcase on the counter and thrusts his foot against the garbage can. Left over food and crumbled up papers fall onto the floor, piling up against each other until I can't the pieces apart. Everything in this house seems to have an outlet for escape, a family of its own to hold onto until the storm is over. Except me. I'm left all alone; the odd one out; the only true victim.

"This f*cking shit!" His screaming voice slices into my skin. I can imagine it ripping away the flesh and allowing blood to pour out. "Can't you do anything right?"

I don't say anything. Any answer is the wrong answer.

"Say something!"

No answer is the wrong answer.

I still don't speak. I'm at lost for words. Fear is assaulting my entire body and shutting every part of it down. I lose all feeling in my arms. My legs are numb. My brain no longer contains any use.

My heart is still working, though. It's working so hard, beating so viciously and rapidly I can feel steam rising above it from overdrive. Are people supposed to get chest pains this young?

"God damn it, bitch!" He grabs my homework and holds it up in the air, ripping each page apart, one by one. I stand there and silently watch as the pieces of paper transform into little bits of scraps, bruises left behind from the brutal battle they have lost.

Hang in there, little papers. I know just how you feel.

When Paul Edwards, age thirty-four, six foot two, dimple next to his left eye, lifts his hand to hit is only daughter, I close my eyes and wait for it to be over.

I don't feel the pain when my dad hits me, because it feels as though I'm not the one being hit. I find myself watching a young girl being beaten, a helpless victim now an innocent bystander that watches the guilty get away with the crime once again.

When he punches her in the stomach, she quickly grabs where his fist once was, clutching on for dear life. When he grasps her shoulders and shakes her, she wobbles around aimlessly until her motionless body disintegrates to the ground.

He kicks her in the shoulder with a grunt, and a soft whimper of pain-both emotional and physical- lurches out of her body without warning. A tear or two may have fallen down her cheek, but it is so hard to decipher anything in this situation through the thick clouds of anguish and vulnerability.

I want to help her. I want to take the pain away more than I have every wanted anything in my life. But every time I reach a hand out to her for support, she shoves me away, resisting my aid. She claims she's got it all under control. She convinces me that this will all be over with in a matter of time.

She tells me to relax, and just keep breathing.

I try to tell her that I'm losing oxygen, but I'm too out of breath to speak at all.

**Ohhhhhh dark! Do you guys like the whole "third-person" thing. I thought it was a good metaphor for how weak she really is.**

**Okay, I just have to say I love you guys. Seriously, the reviews for last chapter (especially that ultra-long anonymous review) just made me the happiest girl in the world. You guys are absolutely amazing! And I love to hear how the suspense of Eli not knowing is killing one of you. Made me feel good about my writing =) But really, you all are incredible. I love getting emails how my story has been added to someone's favorite. YOU GUYS ROCK! And so does that review button...;)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Sup. I just want to say that Darcy does not exist in this story. I'm sorry, I probably should have mentioned that earlier. So Clare's an only child.**

**This chapter is really important. It answers a lot of questions you may have been asking yourself. It was kind of difficult to write, because Clare doesn't know too much, yet I had to apply enough information without putting too much. Hopefully I did it. Let me know in reviews!**

There comes a point in your life when you just stop crying. And it doesn't mean you are stronger or a better fighter or anything of that matter. If anything, it means the exact opposite.

People who don't cry, or rather, can't cry, for whatever reason, are so full of weakness and walls of secrets that the tears are being pushed backwards until they possess your heart. Every day, I can feel tears inside of me, crawling along the edges of my chest, yet every time I think they might break free, a barrier constructs inside myself and it's impossible to let them out. Sometimes the barrier is fortunate, for I don't have to hold back tears at random moments when pain strikes suddenly, but then there are the times when all crying is as tempting to me as water is to the dehydrated. Crying isn't a sign on sadness; it's the release of it. It's a therapeutic technique in which one can express their emotions in a healthy, non-destructive way. And sure, afterwards your chest feels tight and your eyes hurt, but deep down inside yourself, something feels better. Like a blanket is wrapped you to keep you warm on a cold winter's night.

When my dad first started hitting me, I would cry. All the time. So much that gray streaks would from underneath my eyes like bags that signaled lack of sleep. I vaguely remember putting on make-up, scrubbing it across my skin until the gray turned into an irritated red, but the memory feels more like a story I've been told then something that actually happened. I was eleven years old, much too young to be wearing make-up, yet I would go through a whole tube in one week. It's a sad, sad, story, one that would have the paparazzi starving for information and journalists using the strongest, most agonizing words and phrases: _brutally attacked, viciously beaten, four years of pure torture. _Part of me, the part that hides underneath the surface of my own disposition, knows that these words are not lies, but the honest truth. But the rest of me, the parts that never have it all quite in tact, but I listen to anyway because their points are never as sharp, tell me that these disgraceful lies would only make my life worse than it is now.

It's difficult to decipher the exact point for the reasons of my dad's ruthful actions. My theories change in synch with the clothes I wear, altering day to day, repeating, thrown away for good. I've been desperately searching for the day one makes me feel sick to my stomach, incredibly cold or burning hot, my head screaming in delight and fear all at once, but it never came. My dad wasn't abused as a child, or neglected; at least I don't think so. He doesn't keep in touch with my grandparents anymore. I theorize they stopped talking when my mom got pregnant with me. My dad's family was very wealthy, high class house with a white-picket fence, pounds of gold jewelry that were worth double digit karats, most expensive, newest cars, some that haven't even come out yet. He had it all going for him, especially the brains. My father was in the top 10% of his class, receiving straight As his entire life, with one never talked about again B+. Teachers loved him, colleges hungered for him, and kids envied him.

My mother is nothing but an assemblage of self-created hypothesis that will probably never be correct. The only information I have about her is that she and my dad met at a high school football game. They both hated each other's schools, but the feelings diminished when they realized their "soul-mate" was attending the now not so horrible rival. They were both seniors at the time, well, at least my dad was, and dated from then on out.

When my dad was eighteen, something happened. Maybe the condom slipped off or birth controlled failed, but my mother was suddenly carrying me. The news did not reach my father's family very well; they were, after all, high class, and having a knocked up teenage girl on their hands was not very efficient for their reputation. I presume a big blow up occurred, because my grandma and grandpa have never even met me before, which resumed the separation of child and parents.

Nine months later, I entered the world, unwelcome and not desired for. I was the rain on everyone's parade. The amount of time my mother gave to me is indefinite, if she actually gave me any time at all. But she walked out the door, sometime between my birth and first few months of life, leaving my father alone and completely unprepared for the world of parenting. He was originally planning on becoming a psychiatrist, a well paying, highly respected profession that required fourteen years of college, but having a baby on his plate pushed his fate down other roads. He rejected his dream and went to an in-state college to receive his Associates degree in business. Life, once joyful and exploding with opportunities, was suddenly a broken, dark elevator, stuck in between two floors. My father was claustrophobic with all the regrets and responsibilities and let downs he had experienced, and the only reasonable person he could blame for it was me.

I don't know if the temptation grew, or if he had spent my entire childhood waiting until I was the appropriate age for culpability, but my eleventh birthday was the first time he hit me. Things were recently heating up between us, serrated arguments in which he spoke words the average ten year old shouldn't even know the meaning to, threats that left me wide-eyed and flushed with fear, and tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. I could feel my life slowly slipping through my fingers, but I spent so much time reassuring myself that things would get better that I didn't take the common sense to tighten my grip on it.

It was just a slap. A good, hard, palm to face slap that left me numb with trepidation. I didn't pay attention to the burning sensation growing along my cheek, or the round red mark that I knew would appear the next day. My thoughts were drifting along a whole different stream, one of uneasiness and dread for the future.

I wasn't stupid. I knew that this wasn't the end of it, but somehow I went to sleep that night telling myself it was.

The week followed with no indication of that evening's event. My heart gradually piped down to its normal speed, and my concentration began to grow back. But just when I thought it was over, he hurt me again. It's funny, when I think back to it, the thing that scared me the most that night wasn't the fact that he hit me once again, but the fact that he didn't hit me in the face. Instead, it was on my stomach. He knew that no one, without me to point a finger at, would ever find out about his horrible actions through the fabrics of my clothing. It was a treasure chest filled with all his most desirable, hideous secrets. And the moment I realized that, my blood stopped running, just for a moment, but that one little moment was enough to shift my world until a crack ran down the middle of it.

"My fingers hurt!" Alli complains, dropping her pen to fan her hand around in the air, "If we have to write one more word I am going to sue this teacher!"

A few students turn around to chuck Alli annoyed looks. I smile without meaning too; Alli is just so oblivious to the act of considering others it's actually humorous.

When she notices me grinning, she takes her hand to butt my own. "What are you smiling at, Edwards? I'm being serious."

"I understand," I know I'm entering dangerous territory by making fun of Alli when she's not trying to be funny, but the temptation is just too strong to ignore. "I just don't think someone like you could hold a court case very well."

"Some like me?" She looks offended, but it's not heavy enough for me to worry about, "What the hell is that supposed mean?"

"You'd probably get bored and quit within ten minutes."

"I would not!" She raises her voice again, and the teacher turns around to give her a stern look of disapproval. Alli slouches down in her seat and hushes her voice down to a whisper. "I am a very adherent person."

"Good word choice," I look up away from her to get a quick view of the board before copying the words down, "And I'm sure you would, if you really, really, tried. Like for instance, if it was a court case that meant getting Drew, I am positive you'd stick with it until the end."

She smiles at me. "Well, of course. I mean, it's Drew. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you have any guy worth going into court for?"

I think of Eli, his annoying smirk but adorable smile, and his olive-green eyes that are so full of different emotions. In a way, Eli is the kind of person you'd fight all of eternity for, but definitely not me. I'd fight all of eternity just to keep him away from me.

"Nah," I sigh in frustration when I realize I wrote down the wrong phrase, "All the guys here are too…immature for me."

"Someone's picky," Alli takes the tip of her pen and pokes me in the forearm with in. Just above there, a large, dark, newly formed bruise inhabits. I attempt to give her a relaxed smile and inch my arm closer to my chest. "But you're right. Ninety percent of these guys might as well still be in elementary school."

"Exactly."

"I hope you find someone, Clare," she shifts in her seat, "You deserve to have someone special."

"Thanks," I say, appreciating her compliment but not believing it. Who would ever want to be with someone so…broken? They would spend half our relationship picking up a mess they took no part in creating. "That means a lot."

Eli's not in school today. It is very common for someone to become mildly ill, therefore skipping school, but I have this feeling in my gut that that's not the reason for Eli's absence. I attempt to shake it away, but he keeps reappearing in my mind, nagging me to do something I can't understand.

There is one bright side to Eli not being here. I actually get to know Adam, on a one-on-one basis. Despite his offset appearance and actions, Adam's a really decent guy. He's Drew's step-brother, which I found ironic, but kept my mouth shut on that note. Sometimes it feels like he's trying to push a point out, one that's already proven, but other than I find it impossible to hold anything against him.

"Writing takes up a lot of energy," he comments as we work on the opening page for our short story. "Why do I feel like I just ran five miles?"

"Maybe you're emotionally out of shape."

"How do I fix that?"

"Think more."

Adam scrunches up his face in disgust. I laugh when he says, "Ew. Thinking already causes me enough misfortune. No way I'm doing it any more than I have to."

The first page of our story is sloppy. Half of it is made up of scribbles and crossed out words that don't match up well with what we are trying to say. Some of our phrases are boarder line making sense, a few making absolutely no sense what's so ever. But Adam and I got our points across, and in the end the trashy sentence structure and barely readable handwriting can and will be fixed.

"Okay, no more writing," Adam closes his notebook and stares out through the window, into the parking lot. None of the cars are moving, just sitting there idly, but the look on Adam's face makes me feel intrigued with them, too.

"Absolutely," I agree. I love writing, I really do. I also love Swiss Rolls. That doesn't mean I want to spend my whole life consuming rich chocolate and fluffy vanilla cream.

Okay, maybe I do.

"Where's Eli?" The question has been bugging me all throughout class, and getting it out of my system feels like lifting my head from the surface of the water.

Adam shrugs, "Don't know."

"Aren't you his best friend?"

He throws me a preposterous look, and I suddenly realize how unintelligent my question is.

"That doesn't mean I track his every move. What, is that what you girls do?"

"No," I blush at my own stupidity.

"If you want my best guess, he's probably taking an EDO."

"EDO?" I repeat, unsure of what my ears are picking up on.

Apparently they're picking up the right data because Adam curves the left side of his mouth upwards and nods, "Yep. EDO. Eli Day Off. If he doesn't feel like coming to school, he won't."

"Wouldn't he just skip everyday, then?"

Adam bites his lip and turns around to face the window again. I began to grow annoyed at the fact that he ignored my question, but then he answers. "You would think. But Eli said if he took every day off, it wouldn't really be a day off. He's really weird."

"Absolutely," I say for the second time. Eli is weird, but not in the kind of way where I don't want to be near him. He gives off this strange aura that wraps around my ankles and pulls me in deeper with every thing he does. It's like being hypnotized. Everything else in the world kind of fades away into the backseat of your mind, and all your attention is focused on him without you even noticing it.

But that won't happen with me.

**Sorry. This is a no Eli chapter. I just wanted to make Alli seem like a more likable character, as well as Adam (although, who could really hate Adam?) I hope I did good with this chapter. I did a lot of revising.**

**Okay, who melted during Umbrella part 2? Eli and Clare's hug literally sent chills up my spine (literally) and that last scene just made my heart flutter 3 And Wesley and Dave have such a cute friendship! But Dave is a big jerk for tazing Wesley. I mean, that was just cruel. So who is a Fadam fan? I am! And who thinks Jenna and Sav are a disaster in the making? Me! Jenna Boyfriend Stealer strikes again!**

**-Jenna**


	10. Chapter 10

**So I know this chapter isn't super long or anything. But I have a feeling you guys aren't going to mind it. This is full of Eli-Clare cuteness, and I literally mean full of it.**

When Eli returns to school the next day, Adam skips. I'm not sure if they plan these things out, or if it just naturally happens, but something feels ironic.

I've noticed a lot of things about Eli in the five minutes I've spent watching him work on our story. For one, there always seems to be a song stringing along in his mind. He bobs his head subconsciously, the motion so light and subtle I sometimes wonder if it's me who's actually doing the moving. Occasionally I notice him closing his eyes, shielding his view with the harmony of a hidden song only he seems to be able to understand.

I have this theory that every person has their own song. None of them will ever be one you can find on the radio, or search on itunes, or even comprehend any lyrics. It's a melody, the beating of your heart combined with the rush of your blood combined with the kind of person you are. They attach to one another, tying together like DNA until all the parts soar across your body, clouds in the sky. It's not something you can explain, because it's not even something that's known to exist. But it's there, never changing and sticking with everyone until the day they die. Maybe, after they pass away, if you get really, really quiet, you just might be able to hear the soft tune of an unknown song, if only for a split second.

And on rare occasions, he opens up his mouth, just slightly, letting out a breath that's enveloped with something else. A word, an emotion, a memory, a suppressed cough, I just don't know. But his breath feels unusually heavy as it passes through the air and reaches me, and sometimes I can feel my fingers lacing open to grab it and hide it in my pocket. There's something comforting about the way he acts, a lullaby that puts a child to sleep, and Eli seems to be the only person who can put me in a daze only he's able to bring me out of.

"What are you thinking about?"

I jump when Eli speaks. Literally jump. I put my hand over my heart for a second to recover from the sudden leap and graze my eyes back over at him. He's looking at me, another bare expression on his face, but even though I can't decode an emotion I somehow can still tell there's one there.

"Nothing, really. Why?"

He shrugs. "I don't know," He puts his pen down and focuses all his attention on me, "You just looked like you were in a really deep thought, or something. Were you?"

"Maybe," I say, "But it doesn't matter anymore, 'cause obviously you ruined it."

He snorts, "I apologize for raining on your parade."

"It's okay. I like the rain."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

That smirk is back on his face and he shakes his head in amusement. I really don't know what's so funny. Instinctively, and self-consciously, I lift my hand up to wipe an unknown substance off my face.

"We already did this with whats," he tells me, still smirking, "Must we do it again with whys?"

"You never did answer my question," I challenge, placing my bookmark in my novel and closing it. A wave of confidence hits me as I place my elbows on the desk, raising my eyebrows at him and smirking.

I think for a moment how stupid we both look right now, staring at each other with these playful smirks on our faces, but at the same time I kind of like it. For once I don't feel prone to act as though I'm this mature, grown-girl who's completely perfect. I know Eli would hate her, being the way he is and all, and that he'd much rather have someone who chokes on every word and loses herself in her own thoughts.

"You never answered mine," he points out, waggling a finger in my face, "And after all, I did ask first."

"Well, my question was about your question. So I'll answer yours once you answer mine."

"What was your question?"

"What was your question?"

"Why do you like the rain?"

I feel two thoughts arise in my brain. One is: why do I like the rain? I don't really have a pure, straightforward reason for it, like most people expect. There's no childhood memory of playing in the rain, or any song or book about the rain that touched my heart. It just has always felt like part of me, a packaged deal. I just enjoyed it; the noise it makes against my windows, the way it smelt, the way it made the world look.

I suppose my favorite part is how it makes _me_ feel. I spend so much of my life in a state of terrifying numbness, sometimes to the point where I can make myself bleed and not feel a thing. But when I'm in the rain, with frosty droplets of water shattering against my skin, it feels real. _I_ feel real. I don't feel threatened by the thoughts of my body disintegrating with numbness. The world won't shake anymore, flashing into view only for enough time for me to blink and suppose it was once there. When it's raining, my view is pure, I am real, the world is stable, I stop shaking, and even though I'm cold, at least I can say I'm something at all.

But why does Eli care? No one really asks why you like the rain, unless they actually want to know. But if Eli does care, why would he? I mean, sure, he does fit the category of a person who spends a lot of time with thoughts swimming around, but how would any of those thoughts include me? Or rather, why? Am I some kind of an experiment to him? A toy? A puzzle? Or does he know everything, and just throws rocks at my window until the glass eventually shatters?

My mind is so full of eternal questions the answer I was about to say got sucked up into their black portal.

"I don't know," I tell him. In a way, it is true. I honestly don't completely know. "Do you like the rain?"

A soft smile grows on Eli's face. "Absolutely. I'm going to save you the trouble of asking and just tell you why."

"Okay."

He rolls his eyes. "You know," he says, slightly annoyed, "You kind of just ruined my whole point of saving you the trouble of asking why by saying okay."

A blush creeps along my cheeks. Damn them. "Sorry," I mumble.

He throws his hands in the air and wavers them a little with exasperated infuriation. "There you go again. Just do me a favor, and shut up, okay?" He holds his left hand up, his skull ring sparking in the sunlight that's seeping through the window. I'm so tempted to place a finger over it and shadow it away from the beam. "No, no, that was rhetorical. Anyway, as I was saying, I like the rain because it stops me from waiting. 'Waiting?'" Eli mocks a dumfounded voice with heavy bitterness, "You are about to ask," he's right, I was just about to ask, "But think about it, Clare. When it's really nice out, you know, the sun shining and not a cloud on the sky, sure it's great. But after a week, it's still nice. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you're waiting for the rain to come. You know it's not something to just fade away and never return. It's kind of an antsy feeling. It's like, everything is so good but it won't last forever. But when it rains, you don't have to just sit there and wait for it to come. It's there, and soon it will stop, and then the sun will come out again. You get what I'm saying?"

Once again I'm at loss for words. There are so many emotions running through me right now, half of them I don't even know what they are. I sit there, staring at him with probably the most befuddled expression on my face, the mouth shaped into an O and everything. Still can't speak.

There's that stupid smirk on Eli's face when I snap back into reality. He leans back into his chair and crosses his arms, as though he hadn't just had dipped into his soul and pulled part of it out to me. Of course, I shouldn't be surprised. It is Eli after all, the man of mystery, the boy in black, the one person on this planet I'm so perplexed with I hunger to know to more information about.

"Did you hear me? You get what I'm saying?"

"Sorry," I shove away my amazement to stop myself from looking more like a fool than I already have, "I was just kind of scared to speak, considering how you told me to shut up, and all."

"Boo hoo," He pushes back a few strands of loose hair. Most guys, I must admit, look like greasy slobs with longer hair. But somehow Eli makes it work, since it fits his personality so well. I mean, what better way to be super secretive then by hiding some of your face with your dark hair? "I'm sure you'll survive by my horrible emotional abuse."

The word abuse feels like a bullet in my chest. I suck in a sharp breath and start counting.

_One._

He didn't know what it meant.

_Two._

You're hiding you're pain pretty well. He has no idea what's going on.

_Three._

He'll never know what's going on.

Finally, after calming down and gaining enough courage to speak, I say, "Yeah."

Yeah. Just like fine, it's one of those words that can be acceptable in any situation. But just like fine, no, just like everything, there are exceptions.

**Sooo? Did you two like their whole conversation? I noticed how he hasn't had a huge part in a while, so I wanted to give him an entire chapter =) **


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry for taking so long. School is really stressful and time consuming. Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

**I do not own Degrassi- I know I've never done this, but I'm a new story poster, and I am not used to doing that!**

Sadness. Anger. Joy. Love. Curiosity. Pain. Pleasure. Confusion. Hatred. Desire.

There are so many emotions out there in this world, probably more than there are people, and the more I think about it, the more I realize the truth. That with so many feelings to grasp comes such little amount of time to hold on to them. Happiness is a fire, burning and burning and warming your heart, and even though it's great while it lasts, something always tears it down. Whether or not that something be a person, or a feeling, or even yourself, when you look at what once was a blazing flame, now lays dark debris, signs that the warmth is gone.

But it's kind of funny, in a sick way, that the good feelings are the ones that are most rare. And I guess that might be why they're so good, because they're rare, but still, wouldn't we always want to have just what we want? Especially if what we want is always within reach? You would think so, but the hard truth is that us humans spend much more time grieving, crying, screaming, hurting than we spend laughing or smiling. They say that good always beats evil, but then why is it that happiness is always distinguished by pain?

Munro Chambers is having a tough life. Our story has been creeping up the spine of a plot triangle, tracing over the rough ridges of rising action and grasping the climax with a firm hold. It finally hits him, like a recurring dream that has never been concluded and finally ends, that all the things he has been doing were just transforming into repulsion for the future. He's too tired to move in the morning from all the beer, the eviction notices piling upon his counter are finally tipping over, and the love of his life is no better than a poisonous gas inside your house. Too bad that the by the time he realizes the fire that has been igniting an unbearable disarray, it's already burning down everything he has left.

It was difficult to throw together all these feelings and ties together into a 4 thousand word story, but Eli, Adam and I worked together to get the job done. Adam was the editor, for he had a surprising obsession with perfection and accuracy, while Eli and I shared the jobs of writer and idea maker. Both of us seemed to conclude the same visions, the same messages for the story, and I told myself that is was merely the fate of the story, but I secretly knew that it was so much more.

Eli and I hadn't shared any of those odd moments since the week before. He's felt kind of distant, like he was offering me a hand but not using enough effort to stretch out an arm. He must be hiding something, with all these tug-a-war games he's playing with my emotions, but when I begin to question it, I bring myself into consideration. _I'm_ hiding something. Throwing Eli under the bus for the same infraction as me is the most hypocritical thing a person can do.

"So Clare," Alli is flipping through her closet, desperately searching for the appropriate attire to wear on her date with Drew. It turned out that he had liked her for a while, but just couldn't get the balls to ask her out. That's what he told Alli, at least. My prediction is that he had liked her for "a while," but just needed a couple of more girls to "build up" for the experience. Of course I wouldn't tell her that.

_Fireworks_, by Katy Perry, was playing on her speakers, and Alli was unconsciously mouthing the words to herself.

"Is red and strapless too easy?"

I pick at the purple fabric of her comforter. She has been contemplating different outfits for over half an hour, throwing clothes on the floor with an irritated huff only to fall on her knees and search for them all over again. I didn't really get the point of dressing up for guys. I mean, they only take, what, one minute and forty two seconds to get dressed? Why should we use up a whole hour of our time for them?

I sigh. "I don't know, Alli. And I doubt Drew will even care."

"Of course he'll care," She rolls here eyes, obviously annoyed by my lack of advice, "Guys always care, even if they don't show it. What you wear sends a message as to what you're looking for. Here," she shuffles through a couple of garments and pulls out a low-cut black dress that barely met down to the mid thighs with sparkles on it, "This is basically saying, 'cut the crap and lets just go to bed'."

I scrunch my face at her. "If it says that, then why do you have it?"

She rolls her eyes again, and I can't help but feel like I'm the only needle in a haystack, "Because, every girl needs at least one slutty piece of clothing."

Two and a half songs later, Alli finally decides her perfect outfit. Classy, cute, casual (The Three Cs) bubble dress that was black at the upper torso and blue at the bottom, separated by a black belt. She looked so happy and pure, twirling around in circles and smiling at herself in the mirror, and every time she flashed a grin in my direction I kept secretly reminding myself that that will never be me.

But I push the thoughts away. Alli is my best friend. This is her night. I have no right thinking about myself when I have absolutely nothing to do with it. So when she asks me to assist her in curling her hair, I shoot her a cheesy smile and gladly accept. When she tells me to be honest, asking if she looks okay, I tell her, honestly, that she looks like a supermodel. And when she hugs me goodbye and thanks me for being such a great friend, I hug her back and tell her that I'm just returning the favor.

And when I'm walking home alone in the cold, singing myself a song in my head, the loneliness sinks back in again. With each step I take, my feet grow heavier and heavier, the air becomes denser and denser, and my will to keep moving begins to fade away.

I can't help but feel that the tension inside my dad is escalating. Even when he's hitting, punching, or kicking me, it still feels as if he's holding back, taking a step away to try to let out a deep breath. It's terrifying, the idea that something most people would find the lowest is actually a step up for where he truly wants to be. I know my life is on edge right now, stringing together only by a thin strand of worn out tape, but I keep grasping onto the tiny piece of hope I have left, even though it may not be any help at all.

The bruises are more evident now. They're the color of blood-shot eyes, sharp as glass, and can stretch along the length of my entire waste. I used to be able to avoid them whenever I would take a shower or change clothes, but now every inch of my body that most people aren't able to see are covered with the dreadful wounds.

But the real scars, the ones that time doesn't have the power to heal, are buried deep within me. They're overpowering me everyday, kicking at my skin like a baby in a pregnant woman, and I know they want out, to escape the unyielding space of my will and be set free. But that can't happen. I keep pushing them into a bucket of false hope, along with the ideas that things will get better and that my mom will come back. None of it will ever happen, my mom is long gone, my dad's sanity has chased after it, and I am the most naïve, stupid, counterfeit person in the world.

But I'd be even more so if I did let it all do.

Alli runs up to me on the front steps of Degrassi. I can already tell what she's about to say just by the obvious glint in her big eyes.

She proves me right by saying, "Oh my god! I am officially in love!"

"So I'm guessing your date with Drew went well?"

"Went well?" She scoffs. Those words are mild stones on a mountain compared to what she thinks. "It was literally, the best date of my young life."

"Better than with Johnny?"

"Oh, absolutely," She bends down for a moment to pick at her heels. When she stands back up, she continues speaking. "I mean, my biggest date with Johnny was hanging out at the ravine with his druggie friends. Drew actually took me out, ya know? A movie, and not some gory, bloody, zombie film, but a comedy. He paid for my dinner!" She squeals, as if that idea was completely unheard of and above and beyond anything she has ever seen before. "He walked me home! And the best part is that he kissed me!" I put my hands on her shoulders to resist her from jumping up and down more and attracting all the unwanted attention.

"He kissed you?" I imagine Alli's lips coming towards Drew's, a spark lighting up in their heads the moment they touch. I have never actually been kissed before, but the idea seems like jumping out of a plane. Petrifying yet exhilarating.

She smiles confidently. "Yep. And it was such a good kiss, too! I mean, it wasn't a make-out session where all he wants is to shove his tongue in my throat, but there was some tongue." She giggles at the thought, "And it was like he wanted to kiss me, and didn't just want to kiss a girl. I actually feel special."

Alli wraps her arm around my shoulder. I look over at her, my sweet, kind, yet annoying, non-virgin best friend. She doesn't look any different. She still has dark hair, with big, brown eyes, and skin the color of mocha, but on the inside she must be somewhat different. Being in love, or in her case, in like with someone, should rewire a part of you in some way, right? And even though the rest of the world can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there.

After being the victim of an overjoyed Alli, I realize that I'm late for gym. I hurriedly skid across the hallways, cutting corners sharply and bashing through anyone who gets in my way. Unfortunately, I must have bashed into someone a little too hard, because before I know it, I'm on the floor, with Adam sprawled out in front of me.

"Oh my god!" I say, but quickly correct myself, "I mean, gosh. Are you okay?"

Adam nods, rubbing his head carefully. I see something behind him, and when I lean over to get a better view, I figure out what it is. Or at least, I think I do.

Tampons?

I'm a girl. So that means I know tampons when I see them. But even so, I try to imagine what else it could be. A glue stick? Some weird technology project? However, in a matter of a few seconds, I realize that tampons are the only possibility.

Adam follows my gaze, and his eyes snap open into a wide range of urgencies. He removes his hands from his head and reaches out to snatch the feminine items away from my view.

"Um?" I say, standing up and fixing my shirt, which had rose up during the collision. I feel myself gain the same expression as Adam's, and suddenly we're both standing there in full alert, gawking at each other. My whole body becomes covered with goose bumps, yet I'm freezing.

"Yeah…" He throws his backpack over his shoulder and lets out a shaky breath. "I, um, have to go. See you later."

I watch him speed walk across the hall, turning into a classroom. My mind is too puzzled to come up with any solutions, so instead I forget about it and continue my way too gym.

Adam's not in English today. I try to ignore that fact as I sit down in my seat, but my mind keeps replaying our earlier confrontation. What was he doing with tampons? Was it some sort of prank? I think of the movie _She's The Man_. Did he have a nosebleed?

My thoughts are cut off when Eli walks over and sits down in Adam's desk. "Hey," he leans forward to place a hand on my desk. He's whispering at me, his voice stealthily and notorious. "Listen, most people have barely finished their story and we're over half way done with it."

"So?"

"So," he raises his eyebrows and bends his head to the side, "What do you think of joining me on one of my EDOs?"

I stare at him. It's all I can really do at the moment. Is Eli Goldsworthy, Olive Eyed Guy, actually asking me to skip class with him? I know the idea would send Alli into an overdrive of joy and ecstasy, but what is it supposed to do with me?

"I don't know," Suddenly my pen has become very interesting. I stare at it with all my might, part of me hoping it will turn into a wand and pull me out of this situation.

"Aww, come on, Edwards," He puts his hand on my shoulder. My breath hitches. It's so warm and soft and comforting. At the same time, I know it's an omen, a signal for danger and hazard. "I never ask anyone to do this. It's a real honor. Are you really going to turn something like that down?"

"I still don't know," I mumble, "Think about-"

"Think?" His voice is harsh, challenging. "It's always thinking with you. I want you to do me a favor and stop thinking… and start following your instincts. Be honest, do you want to skip class and just get away from it all?"

The idea is so tempting. I'm like an alcoholic with a six-pack of beer laid out in front of me. It's wrong, it's stupid, and anyone with a right mind would refuse, but I can't fight that Eli's hold on my ankles is pulling me in.

"I guess…"

He claps his hands together and shoots up. "Then it's settled," he gently tugs at my arm, "Come on. Let's go."

In that moment something inside of me is changed. I can feel the gears inside of me switching, changing direction and reconnecting with unfamiliar neighbors. And when it all starts up again I feel fresh and alive and young, like nothing can every hold me down. Maybe the beer is making me drunk, and maybe I'll be hung over in the morning, but for once in my life I have to forget the future and just hold onto now.

I stand up, too, smiling at Eli. "Come on," I tell him, tugging at his arm the same way he did to mine, "Let's go."

**REVIEW! I love you guys!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello beautiful readers =) I apologize for taking so long blah blah blah...but well, we all know how retarted school is =P**

**Anyway, I have a feeling you guys will LOVE this chapter. It was my favorite to write, and I had the largest case of writer's block, but then I got rid of it! Anyway, I actually had a totally different plan for their EDO, but this is just so...I don't want to give so much away, so I'll just say perfect. But this chapter is the longest chapter by far.**

**Okay, I'm in a rush because I was supposed to be asleep half and hour ago. SHHHHH...**

"To be honest, I never thought you'd actually come," Eli confesses. We snuck out the back doors, which were evidently unlocked and placed at the end of the hallway, merely two feet away from our English room. A few students watched us with eyes filled with different emotions. Many with confusion, a few with amusement, some envy, and maybe even a little anger thrown into the mesh. I found myself watching all of them, marking each and every person into my memory as I trailed behind Eli, who seemed to not give a second thought about it.

We were outside in a moment, the cool air enveloping over us. The world looks so different when you know you're not supposed to be in it; fresher, more alive, each detail seeming to gain its own radiance. The barbed wire fence surrounding the football field shines a glint in my eyes, even though the sun is hidden behind a mask of dark clouds.

"Then why'd you ask me?" We walk along side a few picnic tables where students eat lunch when it's nice outside, during the months of late March and June. They were all empty, with the exception of a few crunched up water bottles and aluminum foil on the seats.

Eli shrugs. This whole time he's never looked back to make sure I was still following him. "I don't know," he mumbles, running a hand through his hair, "I guess I just wanted to prove myself right."

"Well, you're not right," I say with a smile, opening the sense of warm pride I feel at the idea of proving him wrong with open arms.

"I guess so."

We enter the student parking lot. Car after car we pass, ranging from beat up junkies from the 1950s to shiny red Mazda 6s.

Eli turns slightly and pats his hand on the front of a black car. At first I think it's a truck, with its broad shape and thick tires, but when I get a glance of the rear I notice how it only has two doors and a back that stretches to the very edge of the parking space.

"A he-"

Eli grabs his keys and twirls them around his fingers. A smaller duplicate of the skull attached to the front of his car is placed on the chain. "Yes, a hearse. Surprised?"

"I'm surprised that somebody actually owns a hearse. But I guess I'm not all that shocked that you of all people does."

He rolls his eyes and opens the passenger door for me. "I know, right? Doesn't its creepy intuition match my eyes?" He waves his hand, motioning for me to enter. I don't move. My feet are glued to the concrete.

"Don't worry," he teases, "No scary ghosts or skeletons will come out and kill you."

"How do you know?" I inch my way over to the notorious car, vigilantly, I might add, and place my hand on the window. "This is a hearse you know. It once had dead people in it."

Eli smiles, shoving my hand off gently. "Yeah, but I've scared them all away."

I don't argue with him there.

A hearse really isn't as creepy as it's set out to be. There's a curtain behind the front seats, so the terrifying view of what could be a coffin in the back is shielded from the driver. The seats are leather, and they're cold in the late October chills. There's a stereo, along with a CD player and cup holders, and a gearshift in the middle. I buckle my seatbelt and lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes.

I hear Eli open and close the door, turning on the ignition, followed by the rumble a car makes when it comes out from hibernation. I feel him pull out slowly, carefully turning the car and driving through the parking lot, and stopping at what must be a stop sign.

My eyes snap open a few minutes later. "Where are we going?" Suddenly I'm frantic. My right knee begins bobbing up and down, a habit I gained when I was about six.

"Relax," Eli takes a left turn and heads down an endless road surrounded my trees. When I look through them with perplexed vision, I can make out a few houses in the clearings. But other than that, there are no streetlights, cars, or any other sign of life.

"Where. Are. We. Going. I deserve an answer."

"We're going to Townsend Street."

"What's Townsend Street?"

Eli scoffs and looks over at me for a moment. In the mysterious, cobalt tinted light, his face looks somewhat angelic. "See," he puts one hand up in the air real quick, "That's why I didn't tell you. You have no idea what I am talking about."

"You didn't know that before," I challenge.

"Yes I did."

"How?"

"I'm psychic," he states, so seriously that for a split second I believe him. But then he smiles and I realize he's joking.

For a few minutes there is no noise, just the whistling of the car running along the smooth surface of the road. Eli eventually reaches for the stereo and I jump when suddenly a hoarse, deafening voice belches out with heavy drums in synch.

"What is that?" I practically have to scream over the whining guitar.

"The Job."

"What?"

"Screamo. A screamo band."

"Would you mind turning it off?" The noise is sending my head into a downward spiral of anxiety. Naturally, I try to piece out every aspect of the music, and the task is nearly impossible when everything is so closely compacted together.

Eli turns down the volume a little, and some of the pain rushes out of my head. But it still hurts. "Nope," he shakes his head, "Your on an EDO. And screamo music, well that, is just one of my traditions. No way am I changing it for you."

"That's rude."

"I don't want to be polite to you."

I shoot him a dirty look and fire away. "Why not?"

"I respect you too much"

The phrase themselves make no sense, but for some reason I find a comfortable understanding in what Eli is trying to say. Respect is a barrier, a wall you build in between yourself and another person when you want your relationship with them to have limitations. But when you don't respect someone, and just say what you want to say without worrying how they may shape it, your pushing down some invisible force and swimming in new waters. Waters that are dangerous, unpredictable, but never get cold. But why would Eli want that with me?

Why do I suddenly want that with him?

The first thing I notice when we enter Townsend Street is that it resemble one of those deprived neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Buildings that are gradually disintegrating, smoke arising from unknown areas, people in worn out coats, begging for money. The whole scene sends chills down my spine, and I crush my arms close to my chest.

"This is Townsend Street?" I try to keep the disappointment in my voice mellow.

Eli turns off the stereo. Silence is harsh, quick, especially when awakened from such deafening sounds like his music. "What were you expecting?"

I really don't know what I was expecting. I didn't have any expectations at all, no picture painted as for what I though was going to happen. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that Eli could have taken me anywhere and it would have caught me off guard.

"I don't know."

Eli opens his door, stepping out of his car, and I follow suit. The air is much more bitter than it was at Degrassi, icy winds whipping my hair in front of my eyes. It smells like cigarettes and beer.

Eli walks around the car so that he's standing next to me. I guess the worry on my face is palpable, since his expression softens and he places a hand on my arm. "Hey, it's fine, trust me. I go here all the time and nothing has ever happened."

I fiddle with the zipper on my jacket. Eli's hand is still touching me, and little fireworks are going off in my stomach. I tell myself it's just my fear. "Yeah, well, you're not a fifteen-year-old."

"You make a valid point," he says, leaning down so his face is even with mine, "But I promise, if anything happens to you, you have permission to beat the living shit out of me."

I bite my lower to lip to hide a laugh. Eli lets go of my arm and begins walking, but this time when we walk he keeps it so I'm within reach of him. I shouldn't feel like an outsider; no one is giving me confounded looks or whispering about me behind my back, but yet I still feel like a distorted puzzle piece that ruins the whole picture.

We round the corner of a beat up brick building, with graffiti dancing along the walls. The words are barely visible, just little smudges that you know aren't supposed to be there.

I grasp my stomach, right where a large bruise lies.

On the other side there's an old man, with a scrawny, fragile face and snow-white hair. He has no teeth and there are numerous rips on his coat. When he sees us, or rather Eli, his eyes grow wide with excitement and familiarity.

Eli stops and turns to give him a grin. "Hey there," there's no sarcasm or wittiness in his voice, and the new tune is curious to me, "Let's see what I have," he shoves his hand into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. I watch the old man, stretching out a smile and holding out a shaky hand as Eli places two bills in it.

"Twenty should do you pretty good. Spend it wisely," he gently pats the elder's arm and continues walking. For a moment I just stand there, twisting my head from each of them. Eli turns around and motions for me to hurry up.

When I reach him, I can't help but say, "Who would've known."

"Who would've known what?"

"That you, Mr. Telling off the teacher and king of sarcasm, would have the ability to be that kind."

He smiles at me and shrugs. "That's nothing. It's just money. Some people are just too selfish to give what they have more than enough of to someone you has none of it."

I think back to a couple weeks ago, when I was down in the dumps and began wishing for someone to hand me some of their strength. I always expected people who could be so….giving, to be the people who let their kindness shine through the exterior of their personalities. But I guess I was wrong. Maybe there are some people out there who hide the good inside of themselves and just wait to find someone who's good enough to experience it.

"But still," I tell him, pulling a strand of lose hair out of my mouth, "That's really nice."

After a few minutes of walking along the street, the discomfort I felt before begins to melt away. The cool air doesn't get any warmer, but the thrusting wind decreases to a cool whisper in the world. The brittleness of the buildings don't become any less, but I suddenly see them as less than omens for the future, and more of reminders of the past. It feels as though with every step we take, Eli's eyes are placing themselves inside of my own, and I'm seeing things like never before.

An opening in between two buildings emerges into my view, and just when I think it's nothing, Eli turns and walks into it. I hesitantly follow him, catching my breath along the way; the narrow alleyway is dark and notorious, but then it reminds me somewhat of Eli, and my fear begins to diminish.

More graffiti is placed upon the walls, from the tip of the roof to the crease between the building itself and the ground. I look at the words, some of them cursing off life, others people's names or initials strung together inside a heart. One day, maybe last week, or maybe five years ago, people came to this exact spot in this exact town staring at this exact structure, and decided to mark their existence in a way no one thinks anything of. And I can't help but wonder if the people who cursed off the walls are still that angry, and if Emma N. and Sean C. are now married and deeply in love. People change, loves change, lives change, but these moments that are marked with spray and a bucket full of emotions will always stay the same. Whether or not Emma and Sean never speak again, whether or not that person who "fucked the world" is finally happy, they once felt this way, exploding with passionate love and agonizing hatred, and no amount of time can ever change that.

When Eli notices me eyeing the variety of messages written on the walls, he stops and stares at them, too. "Are you intrigued by graffiti as well?"

I nod my head, "Absolutely," I say, tracing my forefinger along the ridges of one side of a broken heart. "I love graffiti."

Eli comes and over and copies my movements with the other half. For an instant our fingers almost touch, almost, and a line of electricity sparks out from the space in between the heart.

"Whenever I come here," he says, his eyes distant, as though he's reliving a memory I wasn't involved in, "I always check for new graffiti. And sometimes I do find some, but do you know the thing that interests me the most?"

"What?"

"How that no matter how many times I look at all of them, they're always here. It's nice knowing that something in life will never change. Because practically everything else is always in motion."

Something inside of my chest tugs. His words sum up everything I've ever wanted to say. Never in my life have I felt so connected to someone before, so understood. The feeling is absolutely terrifying, like I'm walking along the edge of a roof with cars and traffic hundreds of feet below me, but at the same time it's exhilarating.

"Do you know what I mean?"

I look at him, and he's looking right back. I want to pause time and take a picture. I want to hold onto this moment forever.

"It's scary how much I do."

He drops his hand, snapping back into reality. We were both in a fog a moment ago, lost in the pool of our memories and sentiments.

"Come on."

I follow him without any hesitation. Once we reach the corner of the two buildings, met by a dead end in between, I notice a metal ladder rising up the left wall. Eli grasps onto it and begins climbing up.

"Where does this lead to?" I grip the railings and set one foot on the ladder, pulling myself up. Eli doesn't answer me, but every few seconds he turns back to make sure I'm still holding on.

Once I reach the top I find my hands planted against granite. Warm hands clutch them, helping me up until I'm standing on top of the world.

The view isn't amazing. There are run-down stores and tarnished schools and houses; smoke is rising in the air and the trees have no leaves on them. The world looks dark and dreary, like it's nothing but a cry of help, the only sign of pride is the fact that it's still holding on.

But it's real. I don't have to question anything. There are no blurs hidden at the edge of my vision, no colors too bright or signs too full of words and pictures to comprehend. Everything is simple, all the same and all the equal, a screwed up utopiary. Sure, it's anything but perfect. In fact, all it may be is flaws. But it's real. And in the end, that's all that matters.

"Do you like it? I know it's not a breathtaking view or anything."

I stare at Eli and wonder what goes on in that messed up head of his. He's mean, sarcastic, careless, but at the same time he can be the opposite without actually being the opposite. He's not unusually nice, except for giving the elderly man money, he's never not sarcastic, and he still doesn't seem to care that much about anything. Yet somehow, I feel as though I'm experiencing a whole new side of him. But maybe it's not who he is that's changing, maybe it's how he's making me feel.

"You know, the phrase breathtaking is kind of odd. Why would we want something to cut off your lack of oxygen?"

He laughs and strides over towards me. "I honestly have no idea," he wraps a hand around my wrist, gently pulling me to the farthest side of the roof.

"How'd you find this place, anyway?" I ask as we near the edge.

He closes his eyes, a look of anguish flashing across his face, like he'd been slapped. But when he opens his eyes and looks at me, it's gone. "Long story," he sighs.

"I've got time."

He shakes his head, denying me, "It's not important."

I shut off any more questions I may have stirring around inside. I know how it feels to constantly be weighed down by questions your terrified to answer, questions you hunger to be honest with but know that by doing so you'd only be feeding yourself poison.

He sits down on the ledge, his legs dangling off into mid-air. He pats the spot next to him and I lean forward, eyeing the length between the ground and us. It's really not that far of a way, maybe twenty to thirty feet, but with my fear of heights combined with the quick rush of my blood, the distance stretches even further.

Eventually, I place myself next to him. My legs dance in the air, swaying with the wind. I feel free and young, fearless even when I'm facing one of my greatest fears.

"What's your biggest fear?" I inquire, putting my hands behind me and slightly leaning back.

Eli does the same thing, the tip of his thumb brushing against mine. Neither of us moves our fingers.

"Spiders," he says simply, "You?"

"Be serious."

"I am! Haven't you ever seen daddy long legs? Their legs are alive!"

I roll my eyes and think hard. I can think of _one_ thing that terrifies me cold, but there is no way I can say it. Instead, I push it away and think even harder.

"I guess everything," I say truthfully, "Like everything in life piling on top of each other. School, friendship, romance," I blush, "Jobs, and family," I wince, "Sometimes, I just feel like I can't handle it all. I just wish I could push some of it away for a while. Not for good, just for a couple of days, or something."

Eli doesn't seem too phased by my heartfelt reasoning. He just stares out into the sky, his eyes pushing past all the buildings, people and smoke and seeing something so much more. "Wow," he eventually mumbles, "That makes my answer sound like crap."

"That's because your answer is crap. Now, what _really_ is your biggest fear?"

He crosses his arms against his chest and leans back into the pavement. I stare down at him, with his eyes closed and mouth slightly open, ready to speak. He looks to innocent if you shred off all the black clothing and take away the hearse.

"I'm not being lazy, or anything, but you honestly just said it. Life itself is so complicated, and then they throw together all this other shit for us to deal with and expect us to make it through without killing ourselves," He laughs like nothing is funny, "Ha! It's a wonder more people don't commit suicide."

We don't speak after that. I stare out into the town and he gazes up at the sky, both of us searching through different thoughts. I wonder what he's thinking about. I wonder what his favorite color is and what bands he likes and where he wants to work when he grows up. I want to know everything about him, from the smallest habits to the biggest picture. More importantly, I want to know if he wants to know everything about me as well.

The first raindrop hits my right thigh. I look up at the sky, and within a second, more drops fall, sailing down from the clouds and onto the Earth. It's not pouring, but it is coming down hard enough that after a few minutes we're pretty damp.

I stand up and begin heading towards the ladder when Eli grabs my arm and spins me around. We're in the center of the roof now, both of us dripping with a little bit of water. His eyes are filled with something I've never seen directed at me before, but it's so strong that it spends my mind into a frenzy of lust and desire. Maybe that's what the something is.

"Why are you leaving?" His voice echoes with the showers. It's like a soft melody only I can fully understand. "You yourself said you love the rain."

"I don't want to get your car wet."

He shakes his head, smiling slightly. "I don't care about my car," Gently, he grabs my hands and pulls me closer, so our foreheads are just barely touching. "Stay here." He brushes my cheek with his thumb, and I lean into his touch, "With me."

My breath gets caught in my throat. But this time I don't mind. I finally understand why the word breathtaking is so great. It's not that you don't have the ability to breath. It's just that you don't want to take any attention away from what you're experiencing by breathing.

I didn't realize that we were growing closer until the distance between us disappears. Our lips meet the moment more raindrops hit the ground.

It's not an intense kiss with tongue or moaning. It's soft, gentle, pushing down a barrier neither of us wanted. Deep down, I might know just how wrong this is. It's dangerous, deceitful, and unsafe.

But even so, when he moves his hands to wrap them around my waste, I link mine around his neck. Pleasure is shooting up my spine. I feel wanted. Needed. And they way he kisses me, the way he holds me so tightly, it feels like he never wants to let go.

I grip onto him for dear life, pulling his body as close to mine as possible. Droplets of water cascade down our faces, and I can taste the liquid on his lips.

Everything, our smart ass comebacks, our obvious flirting, our endless amounts time spent driving each other mad, have all been lining up for this one moment.

I finally do what he wants. For once in my life, I stop thinking, and just start feeling.

And nothing has ever felt this good.

**EEEEPPPP! ROMANTIC! I love kissing in the rain, so I just couldn't resist myself. Plus the whole thing with their conversation about rain, it was just perfect! Anyway, tell me what you think.**

**PS: THIS WAS MY FIRST KISSING SCENE. So please keep that in mind. Is it good for a first timer?**

**Okay, so now I am going to curl up into a ball and cry myself to sleep because Degrassi won't come back until February =( Do they want us to die! Oh well, I'll just keep writing this to keep my spirits high.**

**Once again, I adore you guys. Your reviews make me the happiest I can be and I can't express my appreciation enough. You all are so amazing. And who caught the Emma and Sean reference? I just love them together and couldn't help myself.**

**REVIEW!**


	13. Chapter 13

**I suck. I'm a loser. You want to hurt me. I should be chastised.**

**Yeah, I already know that.**

**Okay, so I had the hugest case of writer's block (story of my life?) and didn't start to write until a couple of days ago. Then I hit another block, and stopped. And then I just sucked it up and continued writing. But let me tell you, this chapter was by far the most difficult to write. Edit, delete, edit, delete, edit, delete- those two words haunt me in my dreams now.**

**But anyway, this is the chapter where things really start heating up. Curious to know what I mean? Well READ! **

**PS: I do not own Degrassi. **

**PS-PS: I am so smart that I totally remember to always put this disclaimer**

Somewhere during our kiss, the rain decided to follow fate on it's path against us, and grew so furious that it hurt our skin and forced us to run to shelter.

It's fifteen minutes later, and we're sitting at a local diner, soaked. My lips are tingly and my stomach is still exploding, and from Eli's constant nervous glances in my direction, I guess he feels the same. We haven't spoken much since the kiss. Everything we needed to say was exchanged through it. So here we are, sitting at the booth, poking at our straws and wishing it could happen again.

"What was your first impression of me?"

I jump at his sudden question. It's been eight minutes and twenty three seconds since we've last said a word to each other, and the way he talks is as though we were never silent to begin with.

I take a quick sip of cookies-n-cream milkshake, never adverting my eyes from his. "I kind of though you were a jerk."

"Oh really," he places his elbows on the table and leans forward, "Why?"

I shrug. "You kind of told my friend off."

"A girl like that needs to be told off every once in a while."

I quickly cover my mouth to suppress my laugh, which ends up coming out as a totally unattractive snort. I feel horrible for laughing at a mean joke that's about my best friend, but the truth in it cut a cord in me.

"Don't say that!" I yell, dabbing my mouth with a napkin, "She is my best friend. How you would feel if I trashed Adam?"

"Oh, come on," he rolls his eyes, "Adam is the easiest guy in the world to make fun of. See? I'm not afraid to insult him. That is the real key to a best friend. You can make fun of each other all you want."

"Oh, wow," I give him, what I hope to be, a flirty smile, "I'll be sure to think of that during my next epiphany."

There's a clock next to our booth. I go against every instinct in my body and refuse to look at it. I know if I do, reality will set in and snap me out of whatever kind of trance I'm in. Eventually I'll have to go back, build up my wall of barriers and secrets, but for this little amount of time I want to enjoy the freedom from it all.

"What was your first impression of me?" I challenge, thinking back to that day in Mrs. Dawe's classroom. Only a couple of weeks ago, the moment feels forever away, like so much time has passed that I can barely hold onto the memory.

"Cute."

My head snaps up in surprise. "Cute?" I echo.

Eli nods and lifts his straw up in the air, sucking whatever liquid was left inside of it. "Cute," he agrees, placing it back into the cup.

"But why?"

"What," his voice is teasing, "You don't find yourself attractive?"

I blush a deep shade of red. Either way I answer it, it comes out badly. "I-no-I mean, I-"

He puts his hands up in surrender. "It's fine. I get it. Awkward question, awkward answer. But yes, I thought the way you made it so obvious that you didn't want to work with me was adorable." He points a finger at me, "At that blush is pretty damn cute, too."

If possible, I blush even harder.

When Eli glances over at the clock, I sigh. He's going to say what time it is. I'm going to remember what time is. Reality will vaccinate into my blood and everything that happened today will suddenly become a dream I slowly watch slip away.

"It's one-forty-five," he sighs, too, the same way I did. A little part of me, the part that's not dreading this to be over, is happy that's he doesn't want to go, either.

"There's no point in going back to Degrassi. What do you say I just drive you home?"

I swallow. _Home_. The word hits me every time, almost as bad as abuse. Memories come flooding back in tsunamis, knocking me off my feet and drowning me until I can't breathe. Trying to grasp sanity, I push the milkshake away and sink my nails into my palms.

"Sure."

Eli doesn't blast his music this time. The car ride is silent as I watch the trees flash across my eyes and the grass melt into itself. He doesn't speak. I don't speak. Neither of us have anything to say.

I try not to think about the questioning looks my teachers will throw at me tomorrow. I try to shove away the inundated worry forming in my gut. Eli does this all the time. He never gets in trouble. I have nothing to worry about.

I just wish I trust myself enough to actually believe that.

"Hey Eli," I say when we stop at a familiar streetlight.

He looks over at me. "Hm?"

"We're not, gonna," I fiddle with my fingers, looking down at my lap, "Get in trouble for this, are we?"

He smirks, and it takes all my will power not to jump on his lap and kiss him again. "Clare, do you honestly think I would do something that would get you in trouble?"

Holy crap.

He laughs at my horrified face. I go from needing to press my lips against his one second to wanting to connect my fist with his face the next. Are relationships always supposed to be this complicated?

Whoa. Where did relationship come from? Just because we flirt, and go out, and have deep, meaningful conversations, and he orders me a milkshake, and we kiss in the rain, doesn't mean…

_Holy_ crap.

"No, no," he pants, still laughing, "We won't. I am sorry, but your face was just priceless! Way to make me feel good."

I reach out my hand to slap him. He grabs it the moment I touches his shoulder, and presses his lips against my wrist. For the millionth time today, I blush, and I do so even harder when his lips travel up to my elbow.

With barely any sensible thought in mind, I impress myself with the ability to gasp out, "Eyes on the road."

Eli chuckles and releases my arm.

My good mood is diminished the moment my house comes into view. Somewhere along the drive, when I finally realized where we were, I gave Eli directions.

My house doesn't look any different than the rest. It fits in with all of them. Brick walls, heavy front door, four steps leading up to the front porch. They're all the same, apart of one little, united community.

But sitting here, strapped in a hearse on a rainy day, it makes me feel sick to my core with the knowledge of all the hidden secrets pressed in between each brick, the sounds of slapping that never escape through the windows. I shudder, peering down at the rest of the houses and wondering what lurks inside them.

I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Thanks," I mumble, running a hand through my frizzy, out of control hair. "I had a really good time."

"Same here."

I drop my phone under the seat. Groaning in frustration and embarrassment, I bend over to pick it up.

"What the hell is that?"

My shirt rose up.

Everything in my body starts trembling. I can't make out a full sentence, or even a word. The world starts spinning in the opposite direction I'm running and I can feel the ground pulling me down with it.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I keep telling myself to breathe, but I can't. My throats clogged up and the air grows denser and denser each time I struggle. If I speak, I'll choke even more. If I don't speak, it'll be obvious.

I speak.

"Nasty fall down the stairs. Don't ever go down for a midnight snack in the dark."

I can't believe it. That actually came out…truthful. Whatever fear and worry I feel right now is stuck inside the cage of my mind.

Eli stares at me for a moment. I can feel him searching for something, and again, I don't even know if it's there. "When?"

He's challenging me. He's questioning my answer. How is it that I can practically believe my own words but he can't?

"Tuesday."

It's Thursday. That's believable.

Eli shakes his body, as though he's got a chill, and when he looks at me again his pupils are dilated. "You should get that checked out by a doctor," he tells me.

"Okay."

"Now," he leans forward, slipping a cool, damp hand behind my neck, "Come here."

Our second kiss is not nearly as desperate, or passionate, as our first. But still, that does not mean it's any less mind blowing. He's tender and sweet, soft and careful, like he's putting the last puzzle piece in its place. I let my eyes seize shut, enlightening the way he makes me feel.

Bliss is the only thing I can feel when I walk into my house. I forget the fear I felt before, or the apprehensiveness for tomorrow. All I can think about is the feeling of Eli's lips against mine. I touch my lips for a moment. They're dry and chapped. I don't understand why anyone would want to kiss them so much.

I contemplate with myself on whether or not I should do my homework.. History test tomorrow, Social Studies essay, biology project, math quiz.

I'll do it later.

My phone begins vibrating in my back pocket. I'm too giddy to even bother checking the caller I.D.

"Hello," I sigh, walking along the line of creases on the tile floor.

"Where were you?" Alli demands. I can hear shuffling and the slight sound of guitar in the background. She must be with her brother, Sav, who gives more love to his guitar than he does to his girlfriend.

"I felt like I was gonna throw up during English, so I headed to the nurse. Turns out I have a fever or something and she sent me home."

I didn't lie because I'm a bad friend, or because I don't trust Alli. I'm just not up for the sharp points of her daggering questions and the assumptions she makes pervading along the surface of the situation until she finally figures it out. It's not important. And when the time comes, I will tell her. Maybe.

Alli groans. "Urghhhh!" I can hear the stomping of her feet. "Does that mean you're not gonna be in school tomorrow?

"No, no, I will be."

She squeals. "Yay! Good, because I cannot live through the sweaty locker rooms without you by my side. Wait, hold on." The phone makes a crinkling noise, probably because she put her hand over it. Her voice is faint, but she's speaking to someone in the room and I can just make out enough to know that she's annoyed.

"I got to go in a minute," she says when the crinkling is over, "Stupid Sav can't find his cell phone and needs to use mine to call Anya. But before I go, I just have to let you know that Drew and I are doing great!"

I roll my eyes. They were doing great yesterday, they're doing great today, and odds are they'll be doing great tomorrow. I chuckle at my own humor when I imagine Alli running up to me and saying, in the same over exaggerated voice, "Drew shot someone! But it's all good, because we're doing great!"

"What's so funny, Edwards?"

I didn't realize I was laughing out loud. Blushing (I really need to let that habit go) I quickly think of something suitable to say.

"Sorry, I'm just so happy you and Drew are going along so well."

It's a dumb answer, but Alli will give into anything when she's in one of her melt for boy modes.

"I know! Okay, Sav's practically ripping the phone out of my hands, and I don't want to die. Bye!"

I'm about to say bye back, but she's already gone.

It's a good day. When my dad walks up to my room and knocks on my door before letting himself him, I do my regular observations. He's not holding his briefcase, but that's alright because he's been home for quite some time, and his shoes are off. My heartbeat slows down to its regular pace, but I can't fight off the constant twitch of panic I feel every time I'm around him.

"How was school, sweetie?"

All my worries come rushing back. What if he does know and is just testing me? He'll kill me if he knows I'm lying. First he'll beat me for skipping school, and then kill me. But either way, it doesn't end well.

I try to calm myself down. Closing my eyes for the quickest moment, I allow Eli to take over my mind. His moist hair in the rain, his soft arms clutching my back, his steady breathing against my neck.

"Fine."

"Fine?" My dad strides over to my bed, sitting down next to my feet. My shoulders begin to shake, and the bruises along my body grow so intense I don't have the power to move. "You always say fine."

"Yeah. But school is always the same."

"You're right. I used to always say that as a kid, too." He pats my foot and I jerk my legs up to my chest, allowing a soft whimper to escape. Covering my mouth and praying he didn't hear it, I do everything I can to make it seem like I'm not dying inside.

My sudden act of terror was obvious to any naked eye. But my dad doesn't acknowledge it. He just stands up, turning around to give me one last look of innocence, and walks away.

I hate him when he does that. More than when he hits me. I hate how he acts like it never happened. I hate how, in his mind, he's the perfect parent and I'm the perfect daughter. I hate how he doesn't have to feel the urge to throw up every time he comes home.

I hate how he pretends like the bruises covering my body aren't from him.

Whenever I'm with him, it's like I'm driving head on towards another car. The lights are coming closer and closer, aiming directly into my eyes, blinding me. I have no power. I can't move, or scream, or call for help. There's no shelter to cover me or arms to fall into. All I can do is sit there and hope, desperately, pleadingly, that the other driver has enough control to swerve away.

My dad swerved away this time. But the road is dark and my steering wheel is locked in place. It's only a matter of time before the next collision.

No, I scream at myself. Don't think that way. Those thoughts will ruin me. Release them. Let them go.

But at ten o'clock, when I'm climbing in bed to go to sleep, they're still heavy in my arms.

I can't focus all throughout the day. My stomach has been doing continuous gymnastics routines. The only thing I'm capable of thinking about is a certain boy with olive colored eyes and kissable lips. English has never seemed so far away. The clock has never moved so slow.

I don't know what this feeling is exactly. It's foreign and terrifies me beyond my understanding, but at the same time I never want it to go away.

During study hall, I see Adam sitting at an empty table. Maybe it's my good mood, or maybe I just feel sympathy for seeing someone sitting alone, but either way I find myself sliding up a chair across from him.

"Hey."

I'm surprised at the intense gaze he gives me when he finally does looks up. "Hi," his voice is flat.

"Something wrong?"

He sighs and shuts the book he was reading. I automatically straighten up, feeling the tension in the air increasing. "Not really."

"Then what it is?"

Again, he sighs, and scoots his chair over so we're so close our shoulders are touching. "You remember the whole tampons thing?" he whispers in my ear.

Confused, I barely make out a nod.

"Well, um.." he puts his head in his hands and releases a long, agonized groan. "Damn it! I don't know how to say it."

I place a hand on his arm. "Just say it, quick and easy."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Maybe it is."

He shakes his head violently. "Believe me, it's not."

I can't think of any possibility for what he's trying to say. I feel bad for prying into his business so sharply, but the anxiousness is eating at my skin.

"Just tell me," the words come out more demanding than I expected. I quickly mumble a quiet sorry.

"It's okay."

He doesn't speak at all for what feels like days. The possibilities and questions are hanging in the air, tickling every bone in my body.

"Please, Adam," I'm practically begging him now, "Just tell me."

He slams his hand down on the table, hard, and I lurch backwards. Not even noticing my reaction, he begins letting out painful gasps of anger. "Fine," his voice is barely audible, but the rage and frustration are practically screaming at me. "You want to hear it? I'm an FTM. Female to male transgender. I have a freakin chick's body with the brain of a guy. Freaky, right? But look, if you're gonna ignore me and think I'm a total wacko, just walk away now and get it over with."

Silence is all I hear. There really is nothing to say after being exposed to information like that. I've vaguely heard about FTMs, and I never really thought much of them. I'm not the kind of person to judge. The idea never appealed to me or pushed me away.

"I don't think you're a total wacko," That seems like a decent thing to say.

Adam looks up at me, surprised. "You don't?" He sounds like he looks.

"No. I mean, I'm not gonna lie and say I'm totally used to it, or anything, but it doesn't bother me that much. Just might take some time to get used to."

He starts smiling, wide and pride with white teeth sparkling in the light. "Really?" If possible, his smile grows even bigger when I grin back and nod. "Wow, you're great, you know that? Eli was right."

My jaw drops to the floor. "Wait-what?"

Adam laughs. The way he does makes me feel stupid. "Please, the guy _adores_ you. I know he may come off as a complete ass, but that's just because he likes you so much. Whenever your name comes up in a conversation, he automatically looks totally distant. And it was his idea in the first place for me to tell you."

I know I shouldn't be astonished to hear this, considering we kissed and all, but still, the idea of someone acknowledging me, speaking about me like that when I'm not even around, makes me feel like getting up and twirling around in circles.

"So, you're really cool with it?"

"Huh?" For a moment, I completely forget everything Adam told me.

By the time I do remember, he's already rolling his eyes and speaking. "With, you know…" he nudges my arm.

Only a little bit of soreness occurs, but it's enough to make me flinch and lean away. "Oh, yeah," Distracted from the bruise, I can't insinuate a coherent sentence, "It's fine."

Adam pats my hand and stands up. "Great," he cheers, "Well, I told Drew I'd meet him at the gym to help him with his training so-"

Alli's face pops into my mind. "Drew? How do you know Drew?"

"He's my brother. Well, step-brother, technically. But it's all the same. How do you know him?"

"He's dating my best friend," I say. "Alli…?"

Adam thinks for a moment before snapping his fingers. "Oooh, the really loud one."

I laugh. "Yep, sounds like her."

"Yeah, well, a 'total stud' like him needs to maintain his image by working out," he ruffles my hair, "See you later, Clare. I'm so glad we have no more secrets."

A pang of guild hits me in the chest. "Yeah," I say, refusing to meet his gaze, "Me too."

While sitting during last period, biting my pen for the bell to ring so I can see Eli, Mr. Carter's phone rings. He waddles over towards his overly organized desk and holds it up to his ear. "Hello?"

Ignoring him, I continue back to my study guide. But my attention is quickly strangled when he says my name.

"Clare Edwards, Principal Simpson wants you."

My blood runs cold.

I look straight ahead as I cut through the questioning stares from the other students.

I hold my breath while walking down the empty hallway.

I don't hear myself speak when I tell the secretary my name.

I've been in the Principal's office before, whenever a substitute would ask me to bring the attendance down. It smells like Windex. There are glass bookshelves along the left wall that are only half full. Pictures line up on his desk, one of him at his wedding, another of a pretty blonde teenager holding a baby boy.

But during this moment, all the bright colors and happy pictures don't make me feel the least bit content.

Principal Simpson finally turns his chair around so he's facing me. His eyes are kind, but I can't digest the warmth. The only thing going through my mind at the moment is the devastating wish to just disappear.

"Do you know why you're here?"

Uselessly hopeful that there may be some other reason I was pulled into the Principal's Office for a one-on-one conversation, I shake my head idiotically.

He sighs, "Yes you do. Mrs. Dawe's caught you sneaking out of her class with Eli Goldsworthy yesterday."

I frown; all hope that everything might be okay forgotten. "Oh."

"Now," he shuffles with a couple of papers on his desk, looking uncomfortable by my presence. "You're a good student Clare, and we've never had any trouble with you before. So I'm just letting you go with a warning."

Sighing in utter relief, the tension I had been feeling is gone, replaced by a strong frenzy of gratitude.

"Thank you so much."

He holds up a hand to shush me. "I will have to call your father, however."

Everything stops then. Mr. Simpson's face freezes. Time no longer exists. I can't move, claustrophobic by the sudden jolt that sent my world spinning into a spiral of stillness.

Just breathe. Just breathe.

But I can't breathe. Closing my eyes and counting to ten won't get me out of here. It doesn't matter what I say, or what I do, or how much I try to pretend it isn't happening, because it is. The future never goes away, only lurks upon our view to haunt us and torture our every move.

And I know what's going to happen to me.

"What?" I barely manage to choke out.

"I have to call your dad," he repeats, and the words make me feel I just burnt my hand on a hot stove, "He is entitled to know."

I'm about to beg, until I realize it won't do any good. So many kids probably plead for secrecy, promising that it's the first and only time it will ever happen. I shouldn't be any different. Nothing but a new rejection, another no, the same consequences.

But the consequences for me aren't the same. They're worse.

After a deafening silence of Principal Simpson probably expecting a reaction, he clears his throat. "That's all. You may go now."

Standing up was a bad idea. The horror grew into something much more than mental anguish. It took a new form of sickening churnings in my stomach.

I wait until I'm out of the office to cover my mouth. Running and running what feels like a marathon, I finally reach the bathroom. I dash into the nearest stall.

The only sound in the world was that of everything I had been holding in plummeting out of my mouth at a rapid speed.

When I'm finished, I flush the toilet and lean against the stall door. My entire body is shaking so violently I can't hold myself up. The optimistic part of me expected that I would feel better after throwing up; less heavy and dense.

Once again, the positive part is proven wrong. Sure, my peanut butter and jelly sandwich is gone, but the panic I felt before, the awful, bone-shattering dread, is still there. Even worse, it's all that's left. Happiness is just a memory now, one I wish I could just grab and hold close. I'm hollow and empty. Trapped in my own sorrow.

No one is in the bathroom when I turn on the sink and splash my face. No one is in the hallway when I walk through it, dragging my feet lifelessly against the floor.

After a moment, I notice someone standing near the lockers. And as I get closer and make out the dark coat and brown hair, I realize who it is.

I want to throw up all over again. This time, all over him.

Eli looks shocked when I latch my hand onto his shoulder and slam him against the lockers.

"What the hell is wrong with you, you dumb bastard!" I don't even bother to control my voice. Like controlling the searing rage I'm feeling right now, it would be absolutely impossible.'

Eli doesn't speak, which only pisses me off more.

"You said we wouldn't get caught! You said you do it all the time! Well guess what, we got caught! So either you're an idiot or you're a liar!" I bark out a despicable laugh. "Hell, you're probably both!"

He still stays silent. The shock in his olive eyes is gone. All that lays now is a heavy amount of empty.

I can care less. The only thing I have on my mind is the hunger to push him on the floor and kick him in the stomach until he coughs up blood.

Just like me.

"And you think you're all cool, don't you? Flirting with me and taking me out to skip school in your shitty little hearse. God, no one even likes you, okay? Don't you get it? Everyone hates you!"

I crave to slap him in the face and thrust his head against the tile so hard I hear it crack.

Just like me.

I just want to watch him drown in pain and agony and lonesome and fear and torture.

Just like me.

Everything in the hallway becomes blurry. I push it away. I push it all away. Bending my knees and pressing my hands against my ears to block out my own voice, I scream again. "Say something!"

The look in his eyes blocks out my ability to speak. There's no word to describe what's inside of them. But whatever it may be makes me want to close my eyes and never wake up. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and saying it hurts is the only possible way to express how it makes me feel.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry."

When he walks away, I want to call after him. I want to hurt him. I want to apologize. I want to beat him. I want to kiss him. I want to break his heart.

These emotions are tearing me apart. I slump down against a locker and cradle my face in my knees, gasping for air that just won't seem to come.

Congratulations, I say to the girl who gets beaten by her father.

You win.

**Woah! Intense! You guys really didn't think I'd let things stay happy, did you? If you did, you should notice the hurt/comfort genre at the top of the page =)**

**OKay, I sound like a broken record, but at least I'm a happy one. Your reviews = my happiness. Really, I brag about all of you to my friends. At lunch, I'll just be like, "And yeah, all those also people who left me with 128 reviews are totally better than you." =) I'm not even kidding, I say that.**

**So I'm not gonna promise a new chapter soon. Huge project for school and I need time to get inspiration for how to start it. Sorry!**

**PS-PS-PS: The last line of this chapter was my favorite line out of this entire story to write. **


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi. I asked Stephen Stohn if I could buy it and he had Bruce the Moose throw me in jail for a week. That's why I took so long to update.**

**Sorry it's so short. I'm not lazy, but I just didn't want to continue writing because I felt like it would be too much.**

The aftermath of a battle is almost as bad as the war itself. Nothing around me seems real- the clutter of students walking, the sound of their chattering voices, posters hanging upon the walls. It all feels like I'm watching the world through a glass window and pressing my hand up against it, staring at the motions of the universe and wishing I could do the same.

Heading home isn't an option at the moment. Entering that house, allowing the dense, vicious air to sweep around me, would send my mind into a new state of insanity. So when school lets out and piles of people crush through the doors, I walk with no destination. Brain off, legs on, and doing so feels like water trickling down your throat after a long work out.

It's cold, but the sun is shining down and the iciness doesn't seem so harsh. I walk along the sidewalk, past couples holding hands, past little girls twirling around and laughing, past everything. The grass is moist and sparkling from the cold air. The trees have no leaves.

For a moment I think back to that day, yesterday, and standing on that roof. The ground looking up at me, the sky smiling down at me, life circling around my body and putting all it's joys in my hands and taking all the worries out of them.

Going back to that place seems so tempting. But by doing so I would just remind myself of what's waiting for me at home. Not to mention that the truth may be that it wasn't the place at all that filled me with such…bliss, but who I was there with.

But that doesn't matter anymore. I hate him. He's horrible, and careless, and hurtful, and a backstabber, and a tease, and an idiot.

"Clare- wait up!" Within a few seconds Alli is trailing along beside me, dropping into my step. I don't look at her; just stare at the long sidewalk ahead and wonder how much of it is left until it finally ends.

"I need your advice."

There's no voice in my throat. I can't speak, nor do I think I want to. My voice will be wavering and along the lines of breakage, clearing up the fog that hid my fear from everyone else.

Alli sighs, "It's about my parents," she says, and the fact shoots me off guard. "I really like Drew and all, but you know my parents can be about guys."

I do. Alli, being a Muslim, is not supposed to date, especially guys that do not share her religion. A planned marriage was prowling in her future, and any relationship she may contain now, no matter how special and spectacular it may be, does not have much of a purpose. I always felt bad for Alli, having her future laid down in front of her like that, a gymnastic mat she's supposed to do a flip on that she knows she can't land. It wasn't fair. She can have any guy in the world, with her great looks and sparkling personality, and the one thing holding her back just happens to be the one thing strong enough to not let go.

I still can't speak, so instead I just nod my head and wait for her to fill out the response to whatever I was supposed to say.

"But I don't want to lie to them anymore, you know? I mean," she kicks a pebble on the ground, watching it land softly on the damp grass, "They're my family. And yeah, okay, they're totally and utterly insane, but I love them and I'm stuck with them. I lied about Johnny, and about the pictures, and this," she motions to her low-cut shirt and knee high boots, "I'm just so tired of lying. I don't want to do it anymore."

Silence. She's waiting for an answer, advice, sympathy. I can't give her anything.

The sidewalk begins growing more and more deserted throughout our silence, and by now I can already count the amount people I see with one hand. Cars roll passed us with rumbling engines, shaking up the steady whoosh of wind.

Alli stops suddenly, and I stop too, not even bothering to pull the hair out of my mouth. Her face is so serious, so intense, and I realize just how desperate she is for help. This isn't just boy trouble, or stupid high school drama, but something real. It's family. The people she loves. The people who love her back. And even though they're crazy, like she said, all they want is for her to be safe and go through life without any wounds.

I'm not the person to come to for advice about this.

"Clare," she whispers. The pleading in her voice breaks my heart, but the lump in my throat is condensing and just sucking in oxygen takes up all my energy.

"Please, please help me."

I can't. I just want to say that. Two words, two syllables. It's so easy.

I try saying it, but I fail. Nothing comes out of my mouth. Not a gasp, or a sigh, or even a breath. Just emptiness.

Alli touches my shoulder and takes a step closer to me. "What's wrong?"

Nothing.

"Clare," she's speaking more urgently now. Her problem is being blown away by the wind and mine is taking its place. "What is it?"

I take a shaky step away from her and almost fall back onto the concrete.

"Clare."

I grasp all of my courage and allow the words to slip from my mouth.

"I just don't feel good."

"Oh," I can tell she wasn't expecting something so simple to be the reason behind my freak out.

Even though it's not.

"Well, do you want to go to The Dot real quick?"

I nod my head. Going there meant not going home.

Alli smiles, "Good," she says, throwing an arm around my shoulder and steering us in the opposite direction. "A chocolate meltdown can heal any sickness."

I can't help but lean into her as we near the local town. It feels nice not having to hold myself up for once, even if the relief only lasts a few minutes.

The Dot is always crowded after school. Kids from Degrassi line up at the counter and lounge at the tables, throwing French fries at each other and sipping milkshakes obnoxiously. Alli walks through all of them as if they're not even there and makes her way to the counter.

"Hey," the kid behind her says, annoyed, "You can't just cut in front of us like that."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Alli mocks a look of guilt and places her hand dramatically on her heart, "We're you ordering?"

"Well, yeah."

She tilts her head as though she's contemplating something extremely difficult. "Then why weren't you telling this lovely young man who works her what you wanted?"

The kid looks taken back by her sassy attitude and his voice falters. "I-I was thinking about what I wanted."

"Last time I checked," Alli leans in close to him, "That wasn't ordering."

She turns back around as though it never happened and politely speaks to the shocked servant behind the counter.

"Wow," a voice says from behind me, "I finally get why he likes her so much."

Adam is standing along with the crowd, looking impressed by Alli's attitude.

I chuckle. The lump in my throat is finally beginning to dissolve away and speaking doesn't feel so hard anymore. "Alli doesn't like people standing in her way."

"Literally."

I smile at him, really smile. He returns it and for a moment we just stand there, smiling at each other and passing secret notes through our heads. He is thanking me once again and I'm telling him it's no problem.

"Can I ask you something?" He finally says, motioning over towards an empty table by the window. I quickly glance back over at Alli, who is currently in an ongoing conversation with a girl I don't know. Looking at her one more time, I follow Adam and sit down across from him.

"Yeah?"

He looks down at the floor, then back at me, then at the floor, then me. "Do you know what's going on with Eli? I tried to talk to him before and it's like he shut me out completely."

My last encounter with Eli replays in my head at a raging speed. My cold, sharp words string together to form a long line of blurred misery, his eyes, empty and sad, piercing through me and threatening tears to escape.

"No. I don't."

Lying is not a job anymore. It's simple and natural, my second-nature. The words fall out effortlessly and there's not a second thought about it running through my mind.

A look of sadness flashes across Adam's face, and it ghosts the one Eli had when I asked him where he found the rooftop.

"Oh," he runs a shaky hand through his hair and stands up, "Well, thanks anyway. I'll see you around."

"Adam wait-" But by the time the words are barely out of my mouth, Adam is already out the door and striding across the street.

Alli returns and places our cakes on the table. My hunger has diminished, and the only thing I'm capable of thinking about is that look sewed onto Adam's face. He was thinking of Eli, definitely, and if that caused him to be so pained, imagining what Eli must have been like sends a bullet through my stomach.

"Oh my God!" Alli coos, smudges of chocolate fudge on her teeth. "This is so good! You have to try some."

I look down at the cake. Chocolate is spilling out the sides and vanilla cream is pressed into the middle. My favorite desert; rich and delicious, yet sophisticated, everything I could ever want in a pastry.

I gently push it away and shake my head.

Alli puts down her fork, "Why not? Come on, Clare. It must be kind of tempting." She grabs a forkful and waves it jokingly in front of my face, "Come on!" She giggles, "Eat the cake! Eat it."

I aggressively take the fork from her and slam it down on the plate. "No, okay?" My voice is harsh.

The second the words came out of my mouth, Alli quickly looks down at her lap like a child being scolded by her mother. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, glancing back up at me, "I was just trying to make you feel better."

"No, no, I'm sorry. It's just I'm having a bad day."

"That's just the thing!" The mood between us changes in an instant. Once tender now notorious. "It's always a bad day with you, Clare," she wipes her eye with her sleeve even though she's not close to crying, "There is always, always something bothering you. I don't mind that, though. I get it, okay? Life sucks sometimes. No, no, what I do mind is the fact that you don't tell me what it is."

I slam my eyes shut and start counting. The numbers are woven into each other and I can't tell if that's a four or a nine.

"And it's so frustrating!" She continues on. I can't block her out, no matter how hard I try, "To know that the girl who is supposed to be my best friend is just hiding eighty percent of her life like that."

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Clare? Huh? Tell me, 'cause honestly I'm sick and tired of trying." She shuffles through her purse until she finds enough money to pay for our deserts.

There's nothing I can say to her. This isn't the kind of thing you can just you're your way through. A lie resembles a laser light, thin but pointed. What Alli is saying is like a flashlight glooming over a wall from a far away distance.

So I just stay quiet and watch my best friend fall through the slits between my fingers.

Alli bites her lip, shaking her head as though she's fighting back tears. "So that's it, huh? You still can't trust me."

No answer.

"Whatever," Standing up and throwing her bulky purse over her shoulder, Alli turns around to give me one last look of closure, "Have it your way."

She walks out the door, following Adam, following Eli. A chain of people who just couldn't take me anymore snap the thin string of hope they had left.

The last thing I notice before blinding myself in daydreams is that Alli never even got to finish her favorite desert.

I sit at the table by the window for two hours, planning the futures of all of the people that pass by. And for each character I make sure that they have at least one person who will never leave them. Bill, an overweight balled man whose wife left him for her colleague, has a beagle named Josie who sleeps at the foot of Bill's bed every night, no matter how bad Bill may smell.

Felicia, a pregnant teenager whose parents kicked her out after hearing about the baby has a supportive boyfriend who rubs her sore back whenever she asks him to.

Annie, a cute young girl wearing a pink floral dress with white stockings may twirl around the street and put herself in foul danger of being hit by a car, but at least she always has her daddy to pull her out of the way.

And Clare, the shy, blended in the background girl who doesn't speak much has an abusive father whose intentions are unknown, but at least she has…

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I could write a whole novel based on my life with only one word. The word nothing sums up my everything, and although that's really sad at least I don't have to worry about losing something.

A waiter comes up to me and says, in an annoyed voice that's not well hidden, "Miss, I'm sorry but you can't just sit here. There are other people who would like a seat."

It's Tad. The waiter from my very first "date" with Eli. I wonder if he remembers me, or if I just slipped away from his memory without the boy in black by my side.

I get up without saying a word and sit in a bench outside the café. People pass by and never acknowledge my presence. Cars and trucks drive through the streets, beeping their obnoxious horns at each other, silencing the peacefulness everyone hopes for.

It's almost five o'clock. With each passing second the churnings in my stomach cultivate again, expanding and expanding until I think I just might burst.

I can't think straight. I can't think at all.

I'm scared.

I'll admit it. I'll scream it a thousand times. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared.

Too bad no one's listening.

**Like? Don't like? My regular excuse, MAJOR writer's block. School is so stressful, and my mind is just all fogged up with all the work I know I have to do/finish. Sorry if it sucks, I tried my best.**

**Might be a while before I update again. **

**I'm going to Yemen. Whoever understands this joke is my soul sibling =)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Dislaimer- I do not own Degrassi.**

**SEE! I remembered! Yay me =)**

**Okay, so I wrote half of this chapter and absolutely hated it. I had writers block like you couldn't believe and my brain was just not working right (is it ever?), but I was annoyed and angry with myself so I just kept it. And then, I came back the next day and reread it and realized that it was actually good! That's kind of weird, but I guess I was just so annoyed that I would have hated anything.**

**Anyway, here is the next chapter. I have no idea how I'm going to start the next chapter, so it might take a while. I always say it might take a while, but then I don't feel so bad if I don't write for like 5 days. **

He didn't hit me any harder. He didn't yell any louder. The kicks weren't tougher, and the pushes weren't stronger.

That doesn't change the fact that it was the most painful beating of my life. Not physically, not even emotionally, but something, something inside of me that I just can't place a name on snapped at the look on my father's face.

It wasn't anger. It wasn't hatred or fury or rage.

It was the exact same expression I wear everyday when I look at myself in the mirror.

And just knowing that somewhere inside of me lays a piece of my father, a part of ourselves that we share; I can care less about the bruises and wounds hidden beneath my clothes.

I am like my dad. I'm like the man that beats his daughter. I'm more like him than I am myself.

Terrified, miserable, hopeless, and breaking.

Or rather- broken.

Saturday morning fog has rolled in. Through the thick shades that are shielding what little amount of light there is from coming in through the window, my room is dark as midnight. My eyes will barely open, the dim setting acting as a perfect environment for sleeping more. But when I look at the clock and see that it's one in the afternoon, I jolt up, realizing now how I'm not in my bed, but on the couch, a soft wool blanket enveloping my lower body.

Moments of the previous night come rushing back in violent waves. My head hurts and I cringe at the evident bruises scattered across my stomach when I finally gain enough courage to lift my shirt up. They're sore when I touch them, so much that a loud, unstoppable gasp races out of my mouth.

Eventually standing up, I cross my arms over my chest and pace towards the kitchen. I can smell the aftermath of my father's daily morning coffee, which means that he's not home. I never know where he is on the weekends, or who he's with, but I always hope he's alone. The idea of someone else in his presence, being lied to and thinking all the wrong things, is just too much to think about.

For a moment I just stand here, alone, in the kitchen, still wearing my clothes from yesterday. The dishwasher is peacefully humming and someone is mowing their lawn out front, the rumbling barely making its way through the thick brick walls. The world is calm, quiet, serene, and I can't help but wonder if all of this has been a dream. The torture, the beatings, meeting Eli and chasing him away, feeling as though I can't even breathe. Just a dream; one that cut into my train of common sense and dimmed the light of reality. Maybe Eli is just a figment of my imagination. Maybe my dad really is the incredible man he throws himself out to be. Maybe I'm just paranoid, lost in a reverie and needing to see a therapist, quick, because I'm slipping away into the treacherous seas of my own dreamland.

I blink hard five times, hoping that during these few seconds I'll somehow wake up in a new world, one far, far away from the one I once drowned in. But each time I hesitantly open them, staring at the same old refrigerator, same old countertop, same old life, the hopeful fog in my head clears up.

Opening a cabinet door, I pull out a pop tart. I sit on the floor, cross-legged, and half-heartedly eat it.

Alli is probably off with Drew somewhere, making up excuses to touch him and giving him that flirty smile guys melt for. They might be at the Dot, sharing a desert Drew paid for, or at the movies, sneaking cautious looks at each other when they think the other isn't looking. Or maybe they're making out behind a dumpster in an ally-way, smiling like the lovesick teenagers they are whenever they pull away to gasp for air.

Adam might be reading a comic book right now, bobbing his head to music only he can hear through his headphones. Or he can be looking at himself in the mirror, the soft structure of his face, his small, fragile hands, and wanting and wanting to be who he's supposed to be.

I try not to think about Eli. Every time I do the look in his eyes comes back to haunt me, the look that left me speechless and makes me want to throw myself at his mercy, explain every detail, every carving of reason for the way I am.

And my dad. I bet he's with a group of friends from work, probably with some pretty girl, laughing at all the jokes they make and cracking a few of his own. He's probably making the ladies swoon and impressing all the guys, growing closer and closer to each and every one of them with each syllable that comes out to his mouth. The mask of a perfect man is fully shaped to fit his face, and no one suspects a thing about the person he really is. No one even considers that at home he may just have a dirty little secret concerning the bruises all over his daughter's body.

I wonder if his friends even know about me. I wonder if my dad talks about me or brags about all my achievements, or if he really is a totally different man around them, not only for who he is or what he does, but also for the people that are involved with him.

He's never actually brought anyone home before. Probably because being home means putting his guard down, loosening the strings he pretends don't choke him. I picture my dad bringing home a new girlfriend, and then being suddenly overwhelmed with the rage he always seems to feel and hitting her the same way he hits me. Is there any possibility that it might not be me that's the reason for all his actions, but our house? If we moved, would things be any different? Would all of this end?

I hate how I always ask myself all of these questions. All they ever do is leave me hanging on a desperate note with no one to pull me out. So when I take the last chuck of my pop tart, I erase all questions from my mind and think about anything else. But it's hard. The world is only question, no answer.

Two-thirty and I'm finally dressed, ready to go out. Once again, no destination, but I'm beginning to like the feeling of not knowing where I'm headed. It sends me into a high, a state of rebellion and freedom I've only felt once before.

I walk along the curb, careful not to lose balance and fall into the crowded road. People walk by, and the more people I see the more I realize just how identical we all are. The universe tries to tell us we're unique by putting on different faces and bodies and voices and traits, but when you rip it all of, dig down to the deepest parts of us humans, we're all the same. We all want to go through life with someone by our side. We all want to live as long as we can. We all want to be wanted. We all want to believe we're not the same. But we don't always get what we want. And when it's all said and done, we die in ashes of rusting wants.

Then what's the point of living, if we all know where we're headed? Everyone dies. The end. So why do people try so desperately to hold onto something that has been proven to slip through our fingers?

Again with the questions. Again with wanting answers that just won't ever appear. Again with the cycle of everything, the cycle of this crazy thing we call life. Life is constantly shifting before our eyes, making noises and rustling through the trees and spinning too fast for us to keep up with it.

And it ends in nothing but silence.

Eventually I find an empty bench in the park and sit down. There's barely any people around, just an elderly man walking his dog and a group of middle school kids gossiping around the central tree.

My eyes are shut and I watch the colors flash before the blackness. Red, blue, green. Dancing with each other, or maybe they're even chasing, but it doesn't matter because I'll ever know.

"Looking up words in the dictionary."

I don't need to open my eyes to know who it is. But I do, anyway. Eli is sitting beside me, looking into my eyes like he's clawing out a certain aspect to find out what's hidden underneath.

"What?"

"That's what I do when I feel like I'm going insane. I look up words in the dictionary. It calms me." His eyes shift to the tree above us and he studies it for a moment before looking back at me. It feels like he's about to say something else, but after a few moments of no one speaking, I say the only thing I'm capable of.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," he fiddles with the hem of his shirt, "You seem like you could use something to calm you down."

I look away from him because I don't want him to notice how close I am to tears. A crackling of the damn that's been holding them up and water is one nerve away from leaking out.

"I know a lot of words," he continues on, ignoring my ignoring him. "Gallivant means seeking pleasure. Ravenousness means greediness. Impecunious means to have no cash or money. Vernacular means-"

"Why are you telling me this?" I say again, this time more forceful.

"I…" he trails off, the anguished look he had that day on the roof returning. Only he doesn't wipe it off or turn away to hide it from me. He wants me to see it. He wants me to understand just what he's saying.

Like so many times before, I don't say anything. And I think back to all those moments I've let silence do the talking for me and regret them, each and every one. Silence doesn't talk. It stays silent.

I'm not going to stay silent this time. Even if what I'm saying isn't important or life changing.

"What is it?"

The same words I said to Adam when he told me his secret. Reality sets in and it finally hits me; the time Eli walked out of the classroom without saying anything, when he shoved away my question of where he found the rooftop, the way he notices signals of secrecy like no one else does.

I close my eyes and brace myself for a confession. I can feel it crawling closer and closer.

"Clare, please don't close your eyes. This is hard enough as it is."

I shake my head, stubborn me, and refuse to open them. I don't want to know. I don't want to know anything about him while I'm tucking everything away.

"Clare."

His voice forces me to open my eyes. I look at him and wait for him to say something, anything, to stop the cold stream withering down my spine.

"You know what," he shakes his head, gazing down at the gravel below us. I can see closure in his eyes, the look that reflects Alli's expression yesterday at The Dot, right before she walked out the door.

"This was just stupid. You obviously don't want to know."

When he stands up and walks away, I know that I can't take another loss. Another person leaving me behind, or rather, me letting them walk ahead while I stand in the background and watch them fade out of sight.

Putting all thoughts and concerns away, I get up and follow after him. Eli doesn't look shocked or happy or angry when I grab his arm to spin him around. All he does is stand still, the visions of people walking by increasing in speed until they're nothing but blurs of colors.

"Say it," I demand furiously, my voice wavering with a totally different emotion.

I follow him over towards the bench once again and take a deep breath.

"Last year, I dated this girl and…" he scrunched up his face as though someone was digging a knife through his skin. "One night, one stupid, stupid night, we got into a fight about God knows what."

This isn't a time for speaking. Even when he pauses to collect his thoughts and doesn't say anything after, I still keep quiet, knowing that nothing I could say will change whatever pain he's going through.

"Things got out' a hand. I said all this crap that, God, I just freakin wish I could take back it all back!" Eli let's his head fall into his hands and chokes out what seems to be a suppressed sob.

I still don't say anything. I still don't move. All I can do is wait for the truth, the truth that has been tearing him up all this time.

"I killed her."

He says the words so quietly I question if I heard him right.

When Eli stares back at me his face is haunting, dark. Olive eyes turn into the color of stone.

"I. Killed. Her." He repeats again. By the look on his face I assume he's never actually said it before, out loud, and the phrase must hold an intense weight on him that I can't comprehend, even if it may be pushing down on me pretty hard.

"She got hit by a car. I let her go off into the night on that fucking bicycle!" His fist connects with the back of the bench hard enough to make the wood crack. Flinching, I swallow my fear and try frantically to take his words down with it.

"Do you really want to be with someone like that, Clare? A killer?"

"You're not a killer," I say, and I believe it, I really do, but the shock from everything make the words come out more remorsefully than truthful.

"Don't say that!" When I flinch again, Eli notices, and waves an accusing finger at me. "See! You're scared. You're scared because I'm a killer!"

"No I'm not!" I'm yelling now too, attracting attention from the few amounts of people still present in the park. What we must look like, Eli and I. A boy in black and a girl with no color on her face, both dark and shadowed and tired of it all, pulling at the last strands of hair they have left. "I'm scared because you're yelling at me!"

He stands up. "What do you want me to do? Cry? Fall into your arms and tell you how all this shit has made me feel? You wouldn't understand. God, no one understands! They say they do but they just don't!"

"How do you know that?" I scream, picturing my father's face transforming before my eyes, the monster beneath his mask melting away the good in him. "How do you know I wouldn't understand?"

"You just wouldn't, okay?" His hands stark shaking, goose bumps racing across his skin. "My parents don't understand. My therapist didn't understand. Adam barely understands! Why would you be any different?"

I can imagine the words assembling along the tip of my tongue. The way they would sound coming out of mouth, entering the world in one quick, swift tumbling of my lips. A breath of fresh air, a loosening of the strings grasping the skin around my neck, a million questions building up inside Eli's stomach and a million regrets forming inside mine.

I can see it all. The future as a movie in high definition with surround sound and incisions that reach all the way to my core. All it would take is one moment, one rapid moment of speech that could change my life.

Surrounding my silence is Eli's desperate waiting for a response.

"I don't know," I mumble helplessly, the sensation of hope dying just as fast as it came to life, "But I do know is that you can trust me."

Sighing, Eli settles back down on the bench and leans his head back to face the sky. I follow his gaze, clouds moving to the left, infinity amount of blue never shifting out of place. The sun is creeping in between the two, a seesaw of bright light and gradual dimming, the difference between a nice day for walking outside or a dreary one where you stay inside, doors locked, on the couch, watching a movie under a warm blanket.

"I know," he says after a long time, "I know. Adam told me how good you were to him and I did want to tell you, but I was afraid."

"Of what?" I already know the answer, but even so he needs to say it, out loud.

He turns to face me, the intense expression back on his features like I've seen so many times before. I stare back, just as hard, and wait to hear the words that are already playing through my head, that have been for a long, long time.

"I was afraid of losing you."

There they are. Afraid of loss. Afraid of being alone, one less shoulder to cry on or hand to hold, even when the person didn't know what they were doing. The feeling is all too familiar, the feeling of grasping onto something hard enough that your knuckles turn white, yet you keep holding on because the idea of it slipping away rips through your heart. It sucks, on every angle you decipher it. There's no upside, no grass is greener on the other side.

"Do you think you're gonna lose me now?"

I lean into him when he reaches out a hand to brush my hair away from my face. It's a soft and comforting gesture, one people would expect me to do to him. But right now isn't about comforting. It's about Eli knowing I'm here, I'm real, not dissolving right here before him or walking in the other direction.

"Should I?"

"No."

A soft smile makes its way across Eli's face. It reaches his eyes. The stone is gone, replaced now with the sparkling olive color I've grown to adore.

"Good," he whispers, pulling his hand away.

He smiled, but that still doesn't mean the pain isn't tearing him apart. And even though I want to tell him the truth more than anything, I can't, so I do the second best thing I can think of.

I reach my arm out to hold his hand.

**So there you have it! Confession! **

**I need your opinion. Was the scene believable? Did I take it too fast**


	16. Chapter 16

**It's midnight, and I'm sick, so I'm not gonna apologize for taking so long, because you all know that I am.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi**

"So, do you mind telling me why you freaked out so much the other day?"

I pluck a leaf off a random bush next to the gravel path Eli and I are walking on.

"I don't know," I mumble, the lies becoming more raggedy and forced than they used to, a fact that is leveled between infinity amounts of pros and cons, "I guess I was just stressed out from school. I'm a fanatic about my grades and having a permanent record wouldn't really look good on a college application."

"Clare," I glance up, noticing the serious expression engaged along his features. "Is that really it?"

I swallow. Trees line up beside each other, a family of wilderness with lost relatives destroyed by needs for public satisfaction. I run the tips of my fingers over the branches, the texture rough and uneven, bruises on every square inch that remind me of all the storms and rain and wind they've gone through

"Yeah, it is."

He shakes his head, sticking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. The park grew more crowded throughout the little amount of time I've been here, now populated with mothers grasping baby strollers, huddled up in circles of gossip about the latest scandals. Teenagers stroll on by, boys with their arms around peppy looking girls and twirling car keys in their hand, oh-so-casually pointing out the fact that they have a ride and the douche bag next to them doesn't.

It makes me think of Alli. All those times she's twirled her hair to get attention, batted her eyes and bit her lip. All so palpable, all so shallow. But there must be something else to her, and deep down I do know that there is. But I can't find a word for it- a missing piece of understanding that's left me looking down a cliff in pure darkness.

Everyone's heart is the same size. Underneath what may come off as superficial ness and phony cries for awareness, there has to be more, something that's hidden behind the only things we allow our eyes to see. And I can't help but feel the need to knock on and Alli's door and find out what that something may be.

Like it matters. The final look in her eyes told me a story sealed shut. It's over. I could cry and apologize a thousand times, and yes, she may accept it and let me be her friend again, but that gap of unknown she is so sure exists will forever and always be pulling us apart.

"Why are you at the park anyway?" I ask eventually, almost getting knocked down by two guys chasing at each other, screaming.

Eli shrugs, "No reason, really," he answers, "I'm gonna go hang out with Adam later and I had nothing better to do, so I just thought I'd come here. Plus it's also a good way to unwind. Sidestep to looking up the words."

"How did you even find out that looking up words in the dictionary was therapeutic?" I try to imagine Eli sitting on his bed, distraught and overwhelmed with the waves of misfortunes life thrashed at him, scrolling through an imaginary list of relaxation techniques until finding the perfect one.

He shrugs again, as though this question has been asked a million times. "During a time when you're feeling really crappy, a lot of things can happen. I was reading this book and there was this one word that caught my eye. I was always good with vocabulary, but this caught me off guard and I had absolutely no idea what it meant. I tried to look past it and keep reading, but it was like my mind was somewhere else. There's just this nagging annoyance of not knowing something, especially when the knowledge is right there at your fingertips. Eventually I looked it up, and I don't know, it's hard to explain, it was just… contenting." He stops, running his fingers along the bridge of his nose, "God, it sounds to stupid-"

"It doesn't."

"Yeah, it does. But they're so many things in the world that we will never be able to figure out, and I just want to learn what I can. At least then I'm not walking around totally clueless like everyone else. Looking up words, learning what they mean, fills the emptiness of everything else I fail to comprehend."

"That's really incredible," is all I can say, because it's the only words that will come out sounding like the pure truth. Who would have ever guessed that one simple task most people find annoying could play such an important role for sanity?

"I'm no artist," he adds, laughing slightly, "When artists are stressed, they let everything out through their art. Painters paint, writers write, sculptures sculpt, it all fits together. But, I'm just not any of those. So what am I supposed to do?"

"Find something that fills the emptiness," I say, repeating his words to match my own meaning.

A buzzing sounds from Eli's pocket, followed by the hard drumming of instruments that reminds me of the music that day in his hearse.

"Sorry," he mumbles, quickly flipping his phone open to press it against his ear, "Hey Adam."

A mumbling on the other line is all I can hear. Awkwardly, I look down at my feet, not wanting to make it seem like I'm eavesdropping.

"Um, yeah, okay. Well, I'm actually talking with Clare right now…" He breaks off mid-sentence, and I picture Adam sitting in his room, putting the pieces together until he realizes what Eli's trying to tell him. _She knows_.

Eli glances over at me discreetly, as though something he heard just reminded him that I'm still here. I watch as he listens to the anonymous words coming in through the speaker, nodding occasionally and every so often, glancing back over, each time with the same expression.

"Adam-"

He gets cut off, rolling his eyes and letting out an exasperated breath. I continue to stare at him, not quite able to fight the urge enough not to. After a moment of replaying the previous actions- nodding, muttering unattainable words, eye rolls- he finally sucks in some air and speaks.

"Okay, yeah, yeah, fine. I'll ask her."

My head snaps up. On a small note I was aware that I played a part in their conversation, but even still, the fact that Eli talked about me directly like that is enough to send my blood racing.

When he shuts his phone and looks down at me, I feel my face flush red, and immediately shift my gaze to a woman bouncing a crying baby up and down on the other side of the park.

"Clare," he says, chuckling, "I know you were listening. Cut the act."

I blush even harder at the same time the baby's cries turned into deafening wails. Hectically, the mother begins awkwardly searching through her bag as if to find a magical wand that will answer her one and only prayer. _Shut this damn kid up_. She hands him a bottle with a sense of pleading and the toddler slaps it away, the small jug sailing down onto the ground, white liquid gushing along the gravel.

"Clare."

I throw my head around so fast it sends an ache trailing down my neck, and meet his eyes.

"You know how I said I was gonna hang out with Adam?"

I nod.

"Well do you want to come to his house with me? I mean, all we're probably gonna do is play video games, but I promise we won't totally ostracize you." He smiles at the last statement, a lightening of the mood, and I can't help but return the gesture.

When Eli said, "going to Adam's house," I thought he meant a fifteen-minute drive. But what he really meant was a fifty-minute drive.

"Hey," I say when the trees and cornfields beside the road suddenly become unfamiliar to me. "If Adam's house is this far away, why does he go to Degrassi?"

Eli lowers the music-which thankfully is angry rock and not ear-piercing screamo- and takes one hand off the wheel. "Well, you know about his situation, right?"

I think back to Adam's fury that day in study hall, the confession he fed me that most people would swallow bitterly, if they digested it at all.

"Yeah."

"Well word got out at his old school," Eli pulls on the gearshift, "And a bunch of bastards just didn't know how to mind their own business, if you know what I mean."

I do know what he means, but even so, I don't want to imagine it. So I just mumble a quiet oh and lean back against the headrest, watching yet another cornfield that seems to be chasing in the opposite direction as us.

"Why do people have to be such idiots?"

"I don't know," I say, trying to imagine slipping all the horrible things I hear people exchange in the hallways from my lips, watching a person's expression die within a matter of seconds, and walk away with a sense of pride. I can't. It doesn't seem possible. Like a foreign language I can't grasp the concept of.

"Like putting someone else in pain stops you from hurting any less. Why do people think that?"

"I don't know," I repeat, just wanting the course of this conversation to take a sudden twist. The lump in my throat is threatening to reappear, and I know Eli wouldn't let it go like he had before.

"Why does misery love company?" He continues on, "Why the hell do people want someone else to be going through the hardships, too?"

"I don't know."

"No one does." He shakes his head. "Sorry about my rambling. It's just, it gets me so freakin pissed off that people actually have the guts to do that to a person, you know?"

"I do know," I answer honestly, although somewhere deep inside, a lie is verging on along the corners.

After another few minutes, Eli pulls over. It's a small neighborhood, with maybe twenty houses or so, and each one is distinguished with a unique color and shape. But still, they all feel equal to one another, more equal than my street, even with its obvious aim towards being congruent. The house in front of us, which I'm assuming is Adam's, is a soft blue with black shutters. The grass is brown and the driveway is cracked, flaws that can be pointed out in an instant and forgotten the next. There's a small table on the porch surrounded with three chairs, two identically brown and one white, plastic and added on only when necessary. Flowers bloom vigorously along the stairs leading up to the porch.

"Are you coming?"

Eli's door is open, and he's leaning down to face me.

"Yeah," I run a hand through my hair and step out of the car. Wind whips my hair in front of my face and I pull a strand away from my mouth. Eli's still by the driver's side, fiddling with his phone before walking to the driveway. I follow him, suddenly overwhelmed with how random and uncomfortable my pretense may be.

There are no cars in the driveway, and all the lights in the house are off. As I get closer, I notice how the patches of paint on the sidings are peeled off, white specks standing out from the blue. The flowers, that first appeared full and lively, are descending dead, grazing down towards their pots, exhausted and tired from all they haven't gotten yet may have deserved.

Adam opens the front door before we even ring the bell. He's in a Giants jersey with a ketchup stain on the collar and faded sweatpants. His eyes are squinted, like he'd just been awoken from a deep sleep.

"Hey," Eli says as Adam slowly rubs his hands down his face, trying to wake up.

"Hey man," he peers behind Eli and over at me, "And Clare.

"Hi," I mumble.

"Come in," he waves a hand, motioning for us to enter.

The inside of Adam's house gives off the same feel as the outside. From a great distance seeming like the peek of perfection, everything in order, set out just the way it was meant to be. But then when I really look close, focus on each and every aspect on their own, mistakes, flaws, shoot through the perfection and form bullet holes too grave to patch up. All the doors are the same color, but a few of them aren't closed all the way, barely open, but enough that I can make out the color of the flooring on the other side.

Maybe these things wouldn't bother anyone else. Maybe I'm just so used to looking for every single bruise, picking out what doesn't fit in and pushing it aside. It's just my nature, and your nature doesn't just live where it began, but rather expands until your whole world depends on it.

We walk up the stairs, which have lines of pictures running up and down the wall. Many of them are Adam and Drew, an arm draped around the other's shoulder, a new background exploding behind them. The beach, a rocky cliff, an old looking townhouse, each a different story. Each bringing the same expressions.

When we finally reach the top of the stairs we walk down a narrow hallway, an identical door waiting for us at the very end. Adam opens it, Eli and I following him in. His room is your typical teenage boy bedroom. Band posters hung upon the wall, dirty shirts scattered on the floor and the bed is unmade. What caught my eye, though, was the flat screen TV, with at least a hundred video games underneath.

I know boys like video games. I'm not an idiot. But I didn't even know that that many existed, much less owned by one human being.

"Okay," Adam says, clapping his hands together and directing his attention towards Eli, "Which game do you want to play today?"

Eli pauses to think for a moment, "Heavy Rain."

Adam fumbles through a few of the games, throwing a couple on the ground until he finally reaches the one he wants. "Who were we playing as again?"

"I think it was Ethan."

"Oh yeah it was!" Adam looks at me, and I quickly shift my gaze over towards his window, where through it, I can see a quiet rain shower coming down. "Clare, you can sit down on the bed"

I robotically do what he asks, the sudden sensation of the past events leading up to this one moment. It was a dream state before, floating on thin air, and now I'm awake, alert, and solid on the ground again.

Adam and Eli lean against the bed with remotes in their hands. The black screen transforms into a terrifyingly realistic image of real people, looking more like a movie than a game. Their features are perfectly laid out, creases in foreheads, blinking of eyes, and I wonder how hard all those people who made this game worked towards perfection.

Adam groans, "God, I hate how they walk. It's so freaky."

Eli laughs and nods in agreement, "I know. They can get everything right but the most simplest thing. It's pathetic." He turns to give me a smile I don't know the reasoning for, but I guess it's just so he knows that I know he won't forget about me. And it feels nice, knowing that there's someone there to look back and make sure I haven't disappeared.

For the next fifteen minutes they keep playing, exchanging game talk I don't understand and occasionally cursing at the TV. I haven't been spoken to, not once, but every so often Eli will turn his head to look at me, giving me a smile, raise of his eyebrows, a smirk, or even nothing at all.

During this moment I surface with a lingering question that I've been unconsciously ignoring this whole time. What exactly are Eli and I? Friends? But friends don't kiss. Boyfriend and girlfriend?

I scrunch up my face in disgust. The word "boyfriend" tastes like metal in between my teeth. Something about the picture I form in my mind when I think of it, it's just so single layered, so showy, as though I'm holding Eli on a pedestal for the whole world to see just what he is. _A_ boyfriend. _One_ boyfriend. There are so many words you can put in front of it. So many options. I want something set in stone, something that won't shake.

"Okay, Clare," I jump at the sound of my name, "Should I shoot him or let him live?"

I glance at the TV, hoping that it will give me some idea of what Adam's talking about, but unfortunately the pause screen is in my way.

"What are you talking about?

"Don't ask," Eli shakes his head while putting his hand on my knee. My breath gets caught in my throat at his touch, the dreadful question in full contact. _That_ is not something you do to a friend. But after a moment he slides his hand off, casually, and I start thinking about it all over again.

"Just answer the question," Adam says. He's holding the remote aggressively, as though any minute he might combust from anticipation.

"Save?" It came out as more of a question, but that didn't seem to faze Adam. He un-paused the game and started clicking buttons like a madman.

Eli grunts, putting his hands on the bed and pulling himself up to sit next to me. "Honestly, I would have said kill."

I roll my eyes. "Sorry I didn't reach up to your expectations."

He shrugs. "It's alright," then he nudges my shoulder, which causes me to flinch, "Are you okay?"

I nod, afraid to use words. Adam turns around, studying me, as well as Eli. It all becomes too much for me. I stand up and say I have to go to the bathroom, and when Adam's about to tell me where it is, I tell him I'll figure it out.

In the hallway I gently push each door slightly open. After three tries I finally reach the bathroom, which is small and cramped. I close the door and lean against it, breathing heavily at the small things I turn into such big problems. That's what I do, I realize. Making more out of the bad things, less of the good. I just can't digest that something or someone may actually be on my side. Self-pity. That's what it is. God, I hate people who drown in self-pity.

I'm not going to hate myself.

I wash my hands, suddenly feeling dirty for no reason, and step back into Adam's room, trying to ignore the perplexed stares they're both giving me.

I sit back down next to Eli. Adam shrugs after a moment and continues to play the game. Eli doesn't keep his eyes off me, and I think back to the day in Mrs. Dawe's classroom, the day a few quotes sent me spiraling out of control.

Eli always looks back at me. And whether or not it be to make sure I'm still behind him or just okay, he always does.

Always.

**So tell me your opinions. Be brutal. And hopefully I'll wake up not wanting to cry from a headache.**

**Okay, so I got a kindle, and right now I'm reading "By The Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead" Absolutely amazing. Makes me want to cry**


	17. Chapter 17

**First off, I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season! I know mine was crazy. Anway, sorry for the delayed posting. I've been beyond busy with school and helping everyone out with Christmas and New Years stuff. Plus I have WPCD (Winter Post-Christmas Depression) and I'm always absolutely exhausted.**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Degrassi, nor do I own Eli or Clare, or anything else I may act like I own in this story (except Clare's dad)**

**Anyway, here's the chapter. I worked really hard on it, so hopefully it came out well.**

Alli and I haven't spoken in over a week. I'm so used to the normal routine; one of us, usually me, creating a bump in the road, and Alli turning back around to smooth the creases until everything is patched up. It's always been there in the black and white, within reach, but now I'm not so sure about anything.

Maybe it's because it wasn't a fight we were involved in. There were hurt feelings and hard closings, but never the venom in our voices or the exchanging of cruel words; never anything that could be classified as a problem soon to be fixed. This wasn't a bump in our road, but the end of it.

Things with Eli and I remain neutral. The persistent question still clouding the air, erased by our content, friendly motions, and then written again with hinted flirting. It's all so crazy, the constant back and forth jerking of yes and no, maybe and I'm not sure, and suddenly I'm becoming nauseous with all these turns in different directions.

But even still I don't ask him, nor do I think I ever will. If he wants anything more, he will come and get it. After all, he is Eli.

Our short story for English class is coming to a close. Munro Chamber's life is officially sprawled out into a million pieces that no longer fit together. His girlfriend dumped him for a motorcycle driver, leather-jacket lover with more money in his pocket than Munro has in his entire bank account. Not to mention the pile of eviction notices have finally tipped over, followed by the last string of second chance cut loose. House gone. True love gone. Hope gone.

I feel guilty ruining someone's life like that, even if they may not be real. There's enough in this world we don't understand, and everyone who lives in it becomes victimized with misfortunes. Repeating the cycle just for a good grade feels cruel.

I glance over at the digital clock below the T.V. The green fluorescent light hurts my eyes, which are now adjusted to the omnipresent darkness. I look long enough to know that it's 2 am, and to know that my dad hasn't walked through the door yet, and to know that I'm the biggest idiot in the world for actually caring but I do anyway.

I tuck my legs under my body and stare up at the ceiling. I can't even make it out through the obscurity. All I know is that there's a soup stain directly above where the coffee table is, caused by one of my father's many outbursts that resumed in throwing things. There's a beer tarnish under the couch and a dent on the corner of the countertop. All these small things joined together just like Munro's eviction notices until they grew so tall that they're blocking my view.

But right now it doesn't matter. It's 2 am. Even if they weren't standing tall, I wouldn't be able to see anything anyway.

An unfamiliar voice inside my head is murmuring to go to sleep. Another voice is mumbling words too fast for me to make a coherent thought of them, even though I know that what it has to say may be more important. So I ignore myself and continue to sit in the chair, staring at random things I know exist yet don't see, and wait for the person who hurts me the most to take the pain away.

2:15

2:40

2:50

3:05

Faintly, I hear the rumbling of his car pull up outside my house. Footsteps grow louder and louder, followed with fumbling of keys and the opening of the door.

I see his figure enter the kitchen. It's too dark to tell what hand his briefcase is in, but his shoes are still on, and shrapnel of alarm thrashes through my veins.

He picks something up off the counter and chucks it at the wall with full force. The shrieking sound of glass shattering suddenly pounds through my ears and the withering pieces fall to the tile like rain on a stormy day.

I gasp quietly, but not quietly enough. He spins around. "Who's there?" He barks.

I don't say anything. The ability to speak is long gone.

"Clare, is that you?"

Somehow, gracious for the miracle of my own ability, I manage to speak. "Yeah, it's me."

He walks towards the archway and turns on the light. Everything comes into view; the tile floor, the broken gravy bowl; his briefcase lying on the ground. But I don't focus on any of it. All I can look at is my father, whose eyes are so dead and abused it looks as though he hasn't slept or eaten for months. The sleeve on his shirt is ripped along the wrists and his hair is spewed wildly along his head. It's like the last straw for him is finally here, that any sanity or capability to deal with whatever he's forced to face has faded away in these few anonymous hours.

"What are you doing up?" He demands, running a hand along his head to fix even the slightest bit of tangle in the forest of his own hair.

"I-I-" The words are there, but a lump in my throat is resisting them from coming out.

"What are you doing up?" He repeats, his voice growing heavier like his footsteps on a bad day.

I can't tell what today is.

I stand up shakily. "Waiting for you." I sound small, fragile. My fear is palpable to him. I'm an easy target.

"Why?"

Why?

"You don't have to wait for me. It's not your job. I'm the dad here," he says.

Are you, dad? Are you really? Do dads go through life wearing a mask that hides who they really are? Do dads not even tell their friends that they have a child?

Do dads beat their kids?

Is that a dad?

He turns around as though the noise of breaking glass finally reached his ears. Startled, he shifts his gaze rapidly from the mess to me.

"Clean this up," he says quietly, his entire body beginning to shake.

He sounds small, fragile.

Just like me.

As I stride over towards the mess he made and bend down to clean it up, the incomprehensible voice inside my head becomes understandable for the first time. The voice isn't that of my dad's, whose always ruled my world and controlled my actions. It's my own.

_Get out._

_ It's over._

_ Stand up for once in your life._

I'm tired of listening to other people. Letting someone else take the reins and crash me so hard I'm buried in bruises. So I grab a hold of my own voice and follow the path it's leading me down.

"Why do you do it?"

My dad, who is jadedly walking up the stairs, slowly turns around, giving all attention to me. Tempted to slouch down and shut up, I stand even straighter, look at him harder, and fight.

"Do what?" He says, the same taunting voice that always dared me to anger him even more.

"Don't even ask that," I place the pieces of scrap glass on the counter, "You know exactly what I mean."

He shakes his head and steps forward towards me. The layer of frustration is beginning to build up again, but I realize now it really isn't me acting as the cause of it.

"No, I don't," He stands firmly, the counter and kitchen table between us. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do!" I screech. I'm going to have to say the words eventually, hit the nail on the head once and for all, but even so I'm doing everything in my power to avoid it.

"Clare," this time he doesn't sound angry or full of rage. Just tired, as though we've had this conversation a thousand times and he's sick of repeating the same old words. "Can we not talk about this?"

I can't help it. I'm just so mad right now. Taking my hand, I swipe the pieces of broken glass off the counter and back onto the floor with the rest of the mess. During the action I catch a sharp corner of it on my palm and blood slowly starts oozing out.

Like I actually care. I've had too many experiences with blood to care anymore.

"Talk about what, dad?" I ask.

He groans in utter frustration. All current barriers I've had before, all self-control and ability to lie is gone. Now I'm raw, the pieces of thin gold from my gilding seeping away.

"I don't know, Clare! You're the one who started this conversation! What are we talking about?"

"Why do I even have to say it? You know what I'm talking about!"

"No I don't!"

I roll up my shirt until it reaches to about my rib cage. The bruises are even more evident in the bright lighting of the kitchen, stretching out of my pale skin. Even I can't help but be surprised how all these blatant markings could stay hidden for so long.

But they weren't hidden.

I was hiding them.

But my dad doesn't seem to care. He turns his head away and sighs indolently.

"We don't need to talk about this," he mutters.

At this point I'm about ready to scream with no rational words in mind. I just want to let it all out, all the lies and bruises, all the times I've felt pain words can't describe and held it inside myself.

"Ask me," I demand tensely, my shirt still risen up by my bleeding hand, "Ask me where I got these."

"Put your shirt down, Clare."

Shaking my head, I repeat the words, louder, more forceful. I want him to know just how it feels to be the small voice stuck inside a room full of noise. "Ask me where I got these."

"Goddamn it!" He marches over towards me, just like all those other times, and shoves my body into the counter. I regain my posture and point an accusing finger in his face.

"That's where I got it from!" I scream. "From you!"

He pushes me again.

I push him back.

He slaps me in the face.

I shove him harder.

Amount of fighting and screaming passes between us.

But then I realize the truth. My dad is unstoppable. No matter what I say or what I do or how hard I try to fix things, he'll always be the man who beats his daughter. And it doesn't matter if she beats him back.

So after all the screaming, all the denial, all the bruises, all the slaps and kicks and torture and resisted tears and lies and pushing people away, I run over towards the closet, pick out my jacket and head towards the door.

"Clare, wait!" My dad grapples my arm in his hand. He softens his grip when I flinch.

Too late for that, dad.

"Where are you going?"

I tug away from his clutch, but he seizes my arm again. "Away from you."

"No, wait, please," Closing his eyes for a moment, a hand reaches out to brush my cheek. "Don't leave me. I love you."

"Oh really?" I jerk my body away from him and slam against the front door. One one-eighty turn and a twist of the knob and all of this can be gone forever.

"Yes," he gasps desperately, "I love you so much."

"If you love me, why do you hurt me?"

He tries to shove me away from the door, but I resist and wait a moment for some kind of response.

"Because," his voice falters.

Any answer is the wrong answer.

No answer is the wrong answer.

"Because I'm a wreck Clare," he smiles brokenly, "I'm a total and utter wreck. Work is driving me up the walls. I'm working double time with the same pay and the company is about to shut down. But listen, I could get help. See a therapist. A family counselor. Things can get better. But you can't leave. "

For the splittest second I may consider what he says. Maybe things could get better.

No. It doesn't matter if he never lays a harmful hand on me again. The past will still be here, laying out in front of our eyes and blocking any view for happiness.

This will always be apart of my life.

I turn the knob and walk out the front door. After every part of the yelling and clashing noises, the serene street is like a sanctuary.

Just like life, it all ends in silence.

The world is cold and unwelcoming as I march solitarily along the sidewalk. My breath is visible through the little amount of glow brought upon by the streetlights. I rub my arms with each opposite hand, remembering science class in 7th grade; friction causes heat.

For a few moment's I walk with absolutely nowhere to go. After realizing that freezing to death is a high possibility, I halt my legs and think.

I start walking again.

Eli's house isn't too far from my own. We've been there a couple of times whenever he would need to run home and retrieve an English assignment he forgot to grab before. Three blocks ahead, take a right, pass Path Mark, walk through an alleyway between a run down furniture store and the local beauty shop, and continue down the road until a patch of houses appears. Eli's is the third on the left, green sidings and a grass driveway.

The map is painted in my head. I keep walking, crushing through the freezing air and trying to ignore the goose bumps and bruises underneath my coat. When I finally reach the opening to the alleyway, though, reality strikes.

It's three thirty in the morning.

On a school night.

I'm such an idiot. What kind of person marches outside, in the deadly cold, at freaking _three thirty in the morning_, and knocks on your door, saying "I need you."

Someone like me, I guess. Someone who really needs you at three thirty in the morning.

So I shake off any hesitation and continue on walking. The alleyway is deserted; clumps of gravel and rocks shifting below my feet, a dumpster settled beside me.

I feel like one of those girls in the horror movies. The stupid one who goes out late out night into a dark, abandoned alleyway, vulnerable and scared for her life. Then, right as she sees the beautiful sight of a clearing-

Well, you know the rest.

But I'm not one of those girls from the horror movies. There is no killer waiting for me at the end of the road.

No. My killer is waiting for me at the beginning of it.

I can't help but let my mind wander off to my dad. How just a few moments ago I thought that the last straw appeared within the last few hours.

I was wrong. The last straw was coming the second his hand came in contact with my face all those years ago. It's been fading away ever since, and probably long lost gone a while ago.

The last string of hope I, he, we, had been holding onto was nothing but a cloud of gas floating in mid-air. Disappearing with only the swap of our hand. Nothing but our imaginations patching up the wounds that won't ever heal.

Eli's house is finally within view. My walk swiftly shifts into a run, my legs numb from the cold yet somehow more powerful than they've ever been. Maybe it's the exhilarating rush from the night's previous events. Maybe I'm just merely happy to be approaching warmth.

I'm about to knock on his door until I realize that one of his parents might answer.

For a moment I contemplate my options, until I finally think of a reasonable one that doesn't seem too insane. I pull out my phone and quickly click on Eli's cell phone number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

I'm about to hang up.

"Hello?"

I definitely wake him up from sleeping. His voice is raggedy, most likely from snoring, and he sounds only half-conscious.

"Eli," I whisper. My exhilarated high is gone now, replaced with the utter torture of fifteen degrees Fahrenheit plus wind chill. My bones begin to feel as though they might shatter into millions of pieces, and just saying Eli's name sends a monstrous amount of pain down my throat.

"Clare," he's more alert now, "What's wrong?"

"C-come," My teeth are chattering, "Come outside. T-to your front door."

The line quickly disconnects, and I'm almost certain I can feel his urgency through the phone.

Standing alone in the cold, I look around the world, at the other houses nearby, and wonder how many other people have ever had to run outside at three thirty in the morning like me. I can't be the only one.

The door clicks open and I look up at Eli. He's wearing a baggy t-shirt and ripped sweat pants. His hair is a wreck, sprung out wildly in all different directions, and the stance he's in is full of exhaustion. His eyes, however, tell a different story.

"Clare," he says, like my name is some secret message to open a door to a parallel universe.

I shake my head and block out any misleading thoughts.

"We need to talk."

**So obviously this story is coming to a close. Probably 2-4 chapters left. Could be more, probably not less. I just want to let you know, that as a dramatic affect, I will be putting no author's notes in the last chapter, although I will label it last chapter so you know. However, afterwards, I will post another chapter giving shout outs to all my biggest fans, thanking you all and virtually crying in appreciation, and then...DUN DUN DUN...giving you guys a summary for my next story =) Yes, I have another Eclare fic idea planned out, and it ROCKS. However, in my summary, don't hold onto every small detail I tell you, because odds are things will change. It's just as of then.**

**Anyway, THANK YOU for the reviews! You guys are incredible! So did you like this chapter? Tell me in reviews =)**

**-JENNA**


	18. Chapter 18

**Yes, I am well aware that this chapter is very short. No, I do not feel bad about it, not even close. This chapter really needed to end where it did, and even though I considered continuing it, I realized about 3 seconds later that that's the wrong thing to do.**

**Anyway, here you go. Someone asked me if I could say when I expect to post the next chapter. My goal is by next Friday. It's going to be a complicated and difficult chapter to write, so odds are it will take time. It may be later than that, hopefully earlier, but that is my goal.**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Degrassi. There is no bill in the world large enough to deserve it =)**

I follow Eli inside his house. It's dim, the only source of brightness is a small light hung above the sink.

He strides over towards the pantry and opens the door. "Do you want some hot chocolate?" Shuffling through scattered chip bags and oatmeal containers, he adds with a nervous laugh, "But I'm warning you, I am obligated to burn down at least one piece of furniture."

I laugh, too, but it's rhythmic to his; forced, nothing more but an aspect to fill our lack of words.

"You don't have to," I hesitantly sit down on a chair by his kitchen table, picking at a chipped piece of wood.

Eli pulls out a large jug and throws it up in the air, proceeding to catch it safely in his hands. "Clare, it's like zero degrees outside. Plus, this hot chocolate is kick ass. You'll thank me."

A heat of frustration boils inside of me. Why is he acting so normal? It's three thirty in the morning. I have never actually been inside his house before. And I just called him, broken, nearly in tears, barely able to choke out a single phrase. And all he's worried about is the stupid kick ass hot chocolate.

I need him, I remind myself. He may be boggling my mind right now, but I have nowhere else to go.

"Are you parents home?" I look at his barely visible staircase, fearing that his mom or dad will come barging down the stairs, demanding to know what nutcase is waking up their son this early in the morning.

To my relief Eli shakes his head, "Nah. My dad stayed late at the radio station he works at, so he decided to just stay the night, and my mom is visiting her friend. Her fiancé died in a car accident the other day."

"Oh," I look down at my lap, grieving for someone I don't even know.

Eli pours water into a coffee mug and sticks it into the microwave, the sweet humming becoming the only sense of sound in our silence. It beeps after a few moments and he takes it out, repeating the steps once again with another cup.

What he said makes me think of Julia, Eli's dead ex-girlfriend. And now that I think about it, I recognize the hint of agony on his face when he spoke.

"Hey Eli," I say as he pours a packet of powder into one of the mugs, "Did Julia- was the one who showed you the rooftop?"

Eli's eyes slowly shift towards the floor, and I instantly regret my question.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, "I shouldn't have asked-"

"It's fine," He whispers quietly, still holding the packet above the cup even though all the powder is gone.

Eli tensely stirs the ingredients together, gripping his spoon a bit too tightly. "We found it together, actually. But she showed me Townsend Street, so I guess all the credit should go to her."

I nod my head like I understand, even though inside me, all I can think about is my father's pleading eyes. My forehead develops sweat, despite the chills still racing through my blood. My vision begins to spin in all directions, colors and objects a like combining until they're one.

I've been in a daze, bordered with a barrier of dreamlike fog. Now I'm awake, full alert, and everything this night has been leading up to suddenly feels like too much for me to handle.

Eli sets one of the coffee mugs down on the table and sits down across from me. Steam rises above the liquid, seeping up into the air and disappearing out of sight. "Be careful," he says, almost robotically, "The cup is hot."

I wrap my forefinger around the handle, scared to burn myself. "Okay."

We just sit there for a few minutes, clanking our spoons against the cups, neither one of us daring enough to take the first sip. I refuse to look straight at him, because I know that my eyes will tell the whole story.

Eli takes the first sip, flinching at the ruthless heat. "Clare," he pushes the cup away from him, "Why are you here?"

"I-I," I can't put it into words. There's so much I want to say, yet so much I want to hold in, and all of it begins to look the same.

"Clare," his voice is demanding, "Why are you here?"

"I don't know." I shamefully bury my head in my hands, shaking violently, barely able to breathe. Flip-flops dance in the heart of my stomach, twisting and knotting it over and over again.

I feel sick. I'm going to throw up.

"Are you okay?" I'm shocked that he sounds almost as terrified as me.

Eventually I brace up enough courage to look him square in the face. Concern, compassion, fear, uneasiness, hunger for knowledge, so many emotions all bottled up into the olive shade of his eyes. It only makes the gut-wrenching pain more unbearable. This is all my fault.

"No."

I'm not okay. I never was. Even during those moments where I caught a slight taste of happiness, my father's face was still pervading my sense of freedom, strapping me into a seatbelt for a violent ride. My skin, my heart, everything that creates me has always been ripping apart, if not in groups, than one piece at a time. Some things happen in a moment so fast you need to turn around and second guess if it ever even happened. Others build up throughout time, bruising your body until you realize it's the only part of yourself left.

"What's wrong?" He asks gently.

I shake my head back and forth. I don't want this. I just want to go home and curl up in bed. Let my dad beat me. Let me die inside my own wounds.

"Please tell me."

No. You don't want to know.

"You've been hiding it- whatever it is- for a long time, haven't you?"

The string doesn't snap like I thought it would. There is no magical firework inside my brain or harsh word that surfaces me to the tip of the water. It just slides away, gracefully, slowly, as though I had been grasping it with firm hands and finally allowed it to slip through my fingers.

There is no way to crawl into this. The truth is the truth, no explanations or reasons needed to back it up. It's just there, set in stone, hidden behind all the lies and waiting to be discovered.

"My dad beats me."

I'm still me after I say the words. The bruises are still scattered along my skin, and my father's face is still the first thing I see when I close my eyes. Nothing is different about me. I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Eli's face only changes once. From concern and worry, it shifts to an emotion that can't possibly be explained in one word on it's own. But it's a look that breaks my heart and heals it at the same.

Eli knew all along. Maybe the actual words never slipped into his conscious mind, but somewhere deep inside himself, the truth was stirring around, encircled so significantly with all the lies and resistance that it couldn't be discovered.

But now he knows. And all I can do is sit here, silent and still, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I don't quite know exactly what I am waiting for him to do. Maybe yell at me. Maybe hug me and tell me everything is going to be okay. Or maybe even kiss me and declare his unconditional love. I really have no idea what I'm expecting, but it isn't what does. Not even close.

He reaches across the table and holds my hand.

I close my eyes and savor the feeling of his warm fingers embracing mine. This is what I need. I don't need supporting words or mountains of apologizes and regrets. All I need is somewhere to be here, when I'm cold and scared at three thirty in the morning, and hold my hand.

And somewhere, deep inside me, I knew, just like Eli, that this is the truth.

**Ahhh? Ahhh? Finally got there =) This is what you've all been waiting for. So, how do you guys like it? Is it good enough? How you expected it?**

**Shout out to IndependenceBaer- To a wonderful writer with a story beyond words. If you haven't read her story, read it. You won't be disappointed. She is a great person with a true talent when it comes to emotions =)**


	19. The Final Chapter

I don't smell coffee the moment I wake up. At first I'm startled, thinking that he's still here, in the house, where he shouldn't be. But after a moment of computing past events that feel so far away, I slump down against the head rest and breathe.

The air is cool, like silk running down the cracks that burn every fiber in my throat. I gulp more of it down, as if I just ran twenty miles and can't get enough water.

Beside me, Eli stirs in his sleep, mumbling words that aren't coherent. His cold foot is gently pressed up against my thigh, and the contact makes me blush, even though I know it's not intentional.

I let the recliner lean back as far as possible. Staring up at the ceiling, where the stains and marks are unfamiliar to me, I try to remember everything that happened without feeling sick to my stomach.

I can't do it. Maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe the aftermath isn't meant to be peaceful or serene. It's a battlefield, filled with dead bodies and drying blood, and even though the shooting is done, the sound of guns firing still echoes around the air.

**Silence**

That is the only word to describe Eli's reaction. Words couldn't place what he was thinking, if he was thinking anything rational at all. But eventually, after ninety-eight seconds of deafening ringing in my ears, he spoke.

"Show me the bruises."

His tone startled me. It was as though I were speaking to a different person, one filled with more rage and hatred than someone is meant to carry. It's not me he's mad at, I kept reminding myself over and over again. He's mad because I'm hurting. And I should be thankful.

I stood up hesitantly, gnawing at the hem of my shirt with shaking fingers. The only other person who has every experienced the wrath of my bruises was the girl in the mirror. Her eyes were dead, too tired to even react.

**Run**

That was the first thing that popped into my mind as I slowly pulled the fabric up towards my stomach. Run as fast as I can. Run until the grass meets the sky. Run until I can't possibly run anymore.

I couldn't run. Not then, not now. Like the girl in the mirror, I'm tired. Weak. Dying. Maybe, just maybe, I could have made it three strides without tipping over.

When the bruises finally reached Eli's view, he looked right through them.

**Denial**

It's not something he, or anybody, would ever want to see. They're repulsive, purple and swollen and growing with each passing second.

But then something happened. The truth finally hit him, each and every lie snapping away in a thrashing moment. He jumped up from his chair and sucked in a gasp that seemed to be as sharp as knives.

He turned away, then. Away from me, away from the bruises, away from all the things he didn't want to see. I don't know if it was to make me feel better by not seeing his reaction, or to just block the image out of his head, but whatever reason, I stood silently and waited, just like I had before.

He strode over towards the counter and placed both palms on the granite. I could see his body shaking, the slight dent of his stomach rapidly puncturing in and out. He was fighting back tears. Tears of anger, tears of knowing, tears of sadness.

It almost made me want to cry. We could have cried together, the two of us, both wiping each other's eyes and trying to patch things up.

It wasn't the time, though. I still couldn't break the overflowing dam. That moment, that terrifying, shattering, life alternating moment, just wasn't right.

I don't know if any moment will ever be right.

When Eli turned around, I braced myself for the tight embrace that never came. But once again, he didn't hold me close. He didn't even continue crying. He just wiped the remaining tears off his olive eyes and walk closer to me. I started moving, too, without even thinking about it, and met him halfway.

**Acceptance**

He scanned my bruises, giving every mark of pain it's own story. I felt exposed, shaken, scared, a consuming need to hide, yet I knew that this had to come, eventually.

It's a whole different experience, showing, compared to telling. Both petrifying beyond words, but there's something about the physical aspects you can point out with a finger that's so real it's literally paralyzing.

Gently, Eli reached a hand out to brush the darkest wound ever so slightly. I jerked back at his touch, sliding my shirt down with a heavy amount of force. I wasn't ready for contact. His soft fingers against my skin reminded me too much of my father's fist. Memories hurled at my face like a swarm of buzzing bees, and I couldn't handle it. Not yet.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay," my throat wasn't sore anymore, "It's fine."

"Do they hurt?"

I swallowed hard. "A little bit," I choked out, "Only when I think about it."

His eyes bored into mind. "How often is that?"

…

…

….

"All the time."

**Change**

That's when Eli hugged me. Not a bone crushing embrace that made my whole body ache, but a supple shift of his arms folding around me, his cheek pressed against my hair.

My hands linked together at the back of his neck. I buried my face into his chest, inhaling the sweet smell of whatever deodorant he was wearing. We breathed in a rhythmic pattern, neither one of us wanting to crack open the outer shell of that moment. So I just held on tighter and let him stroke my hair, thinking back to all those times I craved to be held like this.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, decades, that we embraced each other. Eventually Eli pulled pack, his hands barely clutching onto my hip.

I allowed my arms to reluctantly slide off his shoulders, and instantly felt cold without the vibrant heat from his warm skin.

We walked over towards the couch and sat down. It was then the intense wave of exhaustion hit me. I suddenly couldn't keep my eyes open, couldn't even turn my head to face him. All I wanted to do was sleep, and sleep, and stay locked in eternal darkness forever.

"What are we going to do?" His voice sounded a million miles away; the echo of a loud explosion.

I slipped the recliner out and sighed. "I don't know," I slurred tiredly, "I don't want to think about it now."

And that was it. He didn't try to persuade me to think about anything. I was grateful. Too much had been done in that short amount of time. Any more and my whole body may have crumbled to the floor like stone.

Eli shifted positions so his face was next to mine. I could feel his hot breath in my ear. "Are you okay?" He whispered, as though someone else was listening, "Do you want a blanket or anything?"

I don't even remember shaking my head. But apparently I did some sort of signal, because Eli tenderly raised my hand up to meet his lips. Normally I would have blushed or widened my eyes at him, but right then, just the idea of living killed me.

"Goodnight Clare." He said, and then his head was on the other side of the couch.

The last thing I remember was stroking the place his lips once were.

**Aftermath**

And now I'm here. In Eli's house, on Eli's couch, invading Eli's life.

But still, things don't feel any different. I don't have that epiphany of my life suddenly spiraling into another parallel universe. I look around Eli's living room and see it the same way I would have two months ago. As a living room. It's a little disappointing. I have been hoping that with taking a leap of faith and changing my destiny, _I_ can change, too. No more fear or denial or constantly feeling as though I need to run away. But even with my secret broadened to the existence of someone else, I feel myself start to quiver with a paralyzing sense of being trapped. The room around me starts spinning in circles, faster and faster and faster, and I can almost imagine an evil force resisting me from joining it. As though I were always meant to be alone, by myself, separated from the rest of the world.

A hand places itself on my shoulder. Afraid of being alone keeps me from ever letting anyone in, so I slap it away.

"Clare? Are you alright?"

The question is familiar. Of course I recognize it. Of course I begin singing the answer in my head, creating a tune, but I still can't let the word come out.

Why do I feel as though I'm confessing all over again?

I look at Eli. His face is filled with alarm.

Alarm because of me.

God, I am so self-fish.

I attempt to recollect myself by blinking a few times before speaking. It barely works; just enough that I'm able to give him an answer. "I think so," I say, "Just in shock."

"That's understandable." Eli runs a nervous hand through his tangled hair. He's just as uncomfortable as I am. I didn't even think that was possible.

He begins studying me closely, as though more bruises came and arrived during the night. I look away, still not able to bear the feeling of being inspected so closely.

"What happened to your hand?"

I look down at my hand. Throughout all that has gone on, the wound had completely washed away from my memory. The blood is dry, now, like marker on my skin. I tentatively stroke it to find with despondency that it's still sore.

"I cut my hand on a piece of glass," the truth, I notice, is finally beginning to come out and not taste like metal between my teeth. At least something is changing. "Guess I forgot about it."

I raise my palm to Eli so he can see the damage more clearly. Surprisingly, he clutches my hand and looks at it with more interest. "That's a pretty nasty cut," he concludes, "How did you forget about it?"

"I'm used to the pain."

The words aren't actually meant to be said out loud. I cover my mouth in embarrassment and regret. How do I allow myself to obtain such a lack of self-control?

Eli slowly drops my hand back onto the couch, staring at the wound with a mixture of revulsion and discomfort. "Right…" he stretches the word out slowly, "I guess I should have known that."

"It's okay," I respond with a short laugh. "It's not everyday you run into a mental girl with an abusive father."

Eli snaps his head up to throw me a bewildered expression. I guess I can't blame him. What kind of person makes jokes at a time like this?

"Clare," he becomes completely serious. I sit up straighter and fix the creases on my sweatshirt, "You need to tell a counselor."

Nausea slithers up my throat. I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it. How is it even possible to confess about something like this? Throw sagacity out the window and just say it in black and white? Creep your way into the truth, opening it up, door by door, until reality strikes them in the face? The amount of ways to confess is equivalent to the amount of reactions I can be given.

"I don't want to."

Eli scoots closer and drapes an arm around my shoulder. I don't move; don't lean into him or push myself away. I'm too terrified to do anything.

"I know," he bites his lip, "I just," closes his eyes, "Can't imagine," pinches the bridge of his nose, "What you're going through." Lets out a deep breath.

…

…

…

"Me neither."

It's eight thirty. We're late for school. Like it actually matters. I never want to go there again; never want face anyone again. Yet I know I have to. Eventually.

I stand up from the couch and discover that my head has gone completely frail. Nothing seems real. My hand might not actually be clutching the armrest. Eli might not be staring at me with determined eyes.

"We're late," I say.

Eli sighs and looks at his watch. Nothing on his face seems to change at the knowledge. "I know," he sighs, "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't go."

"What about clothes?"

I know I'm being stupid. But I'll do anything to pry my way out of this situation.

"It doesn't matter. You just- we just have to do this."

"Have to do this" are a string of words everyone hates. Because we all know that when they are said, that something dreaded- whether it is a way to change your future or collect a part of your past- is arriving one moment too soon. Feeling that gut-wrenching exhaustion once again, I sink down on the floor against the couch and close my eyes.

I can sense Eli staring at me, not knowing what to do. After a second he sits down on the couch. His knee is just touching my shoulder. "We really should leave soon," his voice is strangled with an unrecognizable emotion.

I open my eyes and look up at him. His hair is still a wreck and his sweatshirt is completely wrinkled. "How am I even going to do it?" I whisper desperately, even though I know Eli won't have an answer.

He blinks four times, never keeping his gaze off me. "I don't know," he shakes his head, "But it just, it just doesn't even matter, Clare. Sometimes what you have to say is more important that how you say it."

"I don't even know what to say."

Eli sighs and plops down on the floor next to me. He begins tracing patterns on his knee.

"Just say it how you said it to me," he finally states. Those words make it sound so simple, but something in the quivering of Eli's voice makes me know that he understands it's not. Not even the least bit.

My knees give out even though I'm already sitting. The churnings in my stomach have reached a whole new level, and every itch on my body feels like a letter in the word fear.

"I wasn't even thinking when I told you," I let out a humorless laugh, "But now all I can do is think. I just wish I could shut off my brain. At least then things would be easier."

Eli stops tracing patterns. He's not looking at me, but I can still sense his attention on me. "If you had no brain," he says harshly, "You wouldn't even be here in the first place. I mean, it must have taken some thought to come to me."

My father's face comes into mind. His hand grasping my arm for dear life, the dying disposition flooding through his eyes, the way it felt to rip myself away from him, watching his fingers slide off my bruised skin.

"Not really."

We continue to sit on the floor, refusing to look at one another. Fifteen minutes have probably passed since Eli has woken up, and I know valuable time is being wasted, but I don't want to move. I don't want to shift any part of my life right now.

Eli looks over at me, "How long?"

_How long for what?_ I almost ask him, but I know what he's saying, know what dangerous territory he's trespassing on. I grip my stomach as if doing so may protect me from saying the words.

"About four years."

He doesn't say anything. But his body his tense. The flaming rage inside of him is exposing through his skin and burning into my own. Instinctively, I shift away.

"Four years?" His voice is toxic, "Four years? Four freakin years?"

My eyes burn holes into the carpet. "Yes," I whisper.

"Four years," he says again, as though he were telling me the news, "I can't even believe it. _Four_ years. God, so stupid!"

"I know," I cry out for the first time, "I know! I'm such an idiot!

"Yes you are!" Eli yells back. His tone makes me flinch. "How could you let someone hurt you for that long?"

I stand up sharply and point a raging finger at him. "It wasn't just 'someone', Eli. It was my father."

He stands up, too. Our bodies are only inches away from touching. I refuse to make any contact with him. If we do, a fire might start.

"And that makes it even better?"

I explode a suffocated scream. "No, but it makes it even harder! Don't you get it? He's my dad, Eli, my dad. I don't want to be one of those pitied kids who go into a foster home because mommy left and daddy got abusive. I don't want to grow up without a parent! I don't want to be like that kind of person!"

"So you'd rather be the kind of person who gets beaten by there own father? Is that really any better?"

I turn away from him. He's right. Everything he said is right. Everything he said is the truth.

But the truth hurts. And I can't handle any more pain.

Eli walks up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. "I know you're scared," his voice is soft now. I don't know if it's because he's too exhausted to be mad or actually knows how close I am to breaking. Frankly, I don't even care. "And well, that's really it. You're scared. And you should be. But stop trying not to be scared, Clare. All you're going to end up doing is scaring yourself more."

I lean back against his chest and his grip on me tightens, almost possessively. "I can't help it. Being scared is all I've really known."

"I know."

I wipe my eyes even though I'm not crying and take a step forward. I know Eli's watching me, waiting for what I'm going to do next, but I'm not even sure where I'm headed.

All I know is I'm not going back.

I can't go back.

I spin on my heels to stare at Eli right in the eyes. He seems shocked by my sudden gain of confidence, but doesn't move a muscle.

"Let's go."

We don't speak as we put on our coats and head towards Eli's car. We don't speak at the first red light, or the first stop sign, or any of the ones after that. We don't speak when the car ignition dies off in the Degrassi parking lot and terror becomes my only emotion.

I'm trying to save up my voice. As though these few moments lurking ahead may flood my vocal cords.

Eli steps out of his car and shuts the door. I don't do anything.

The nausea is all I can feel. It's taking over me: every freckle and every vein and every ounce of blood in my body. My skin turns as scorching as fire and there's absolutely nothing to cool it down.

I look down at the cut on my palm, which is now covered by a band-aid. Such a small wound took such a long time to heal. How is there enough time in this world to heal all the other ones on me?

How is there enough time in this world to heal _me_?

Why did I even think I could be saved in the first place? Eli's strong and brave, but he has his own problems to deal with. He doesn't deserve someone else's weight on his shoulders. What was going through my mind? Nothing ever has a happy ending. Just silence. An endless, echoing stream of silence.

The passenger door opens up and the harsh wind brings goose bumps on my arms.

Eli is staring down at me. He doesn't seem annoyed by my lack of motion. Just worried. And maybe a little scared, too.

Scared and worried because of me.

"Are you coming?" He asks.

What other choice do I have? Stay stuck inside Eli's hearse forever, staring through the windshield and watch the world go by. Watch the sunset and the rain fall and other people's lives shatter and come together again.

I nod my head. "Yes."

The hallways are pretty much empty when we enter the school. Most people are already in class. A few students linger by their lockers. The bad asses: the ones who don't need no education. Their heads turn slightly as Eli and I walk on by, but there attention diminishes even faster than it arrived.

The guidance counselor's office is only six floor tiles away from us now. My feet are moving but I can't feel them. I can't feel anything at all. Not even Eli's arm around my shoulder.

SILENCE

- Six

RUN

-Five

DENIAL

-Four

ACCEPTANCE

-Three

CHANGE

-Two

AFTERMATH

-One

The door, I swear, is wearing the same expression as my father. That daring look. Just waiting to see how far I'll take it.

But I guess at the moment everything reminds me of him. Each object in this narrow hallway brings me back to my dad, one way or another. And closing my eyes and counting to ten won't make that go away

Where is he now, I wonder to myself. Looking for me? Waiting for me? Sitting at home in the dark, with a full cup of coffee sitting idly on the table, praying that this will just go away? Throwing things around in pure chaos, glass shattering, furniture breaking, his whole house falling apart in sync with his life?

Or is he at work, laughing with the guys and smiling at the girls, telling them all just how wonderful he is. Putting me, his daughter, in the shed of his mind and dealing with his life one bridge at a time.

These images are driving me insane. I can't even think of my father without being exposed to that callous agony in the center of my chest. His face, his voice, him, are just too much to bear.

"You're shaking," I hear Eli say.

I am shaking. I just assumed it was all in my head, like so many of the things I think are real.

Eli slides his arm off my shoulders when I turn to face him. His eyes are filled with concern.

Concern because of-

But then I realize something. Eli isn't just concerned because of me.

He's concerned _for_ me.

He never had to help me. He didn't have to show me the rooftop or tell me about Julia or let me in his house at three thirty in the morning. He did all of it, maybe not even because he wanted to, but maybe because he felt obliged to.

Maybe he just did what he did because when you care about someone, you help them.

When you care about someone, you don't beat them. Even though you may love them.

I suck in a deep breath and refuse to let it out. For this one moment, I just want to enjoy the air in my lungs. I want to know I have something to hold onto.

"I guess it's time," I say once I finally exhale.

Eli looks at the closed door. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

Yes. More than anything in the world. I don't want to face this alone. I don't know if I can do this alone.

"No," the word tastes like venom, "I mean, I want you to, but you can't."

Eli tilts his head to the side, confused. "Why?"

I let my eyes fall shut. I'm not even speaking to him anymore. "This started with me. It needs to end the same way."

His warm hand brushes the skin on my cheek. I lean into his touch, wanting more than anything to grab that hand and run away from all this. Escape reality.

But I can't. This isn't about doing what I want. It's about doing what's right, even if it may be the most terrifying experience in my life.

"I should go in now."

Eli nods and sits down against the wall.

"You don't have to stay here for me," I whisper, even though I think I might die if he doesn't.

His eyes roam up until they meet my own. "I'm not doing this for you, Clare," he says huskily, "I'm doing this for me. I need to be here when it's over."

A smile, the first one in a long time, makes it's way onto my face. "Thank you for doing this, even if it's not for me."

He shrugs, as if, you even need to say that? "I can't help it if I'm self fish."

I smile once more at him before turning the knob and entering the counselor's office.

I can barely even breathe. Everything seems so unreal, yet I can feel the power of reality itself weighing down onto my shoulders.

Ms. Evans turns her attention of the computer screen and onto me. She gently slides her glasses off. "What do you need, Clare?"

I think of my father again. Every aspect of him; the way he smelt, the way his hair stuck to his forehead whenever he got out of the shower, the way his hand felt rubbing my shoulder as he would walk passed me. The look in his eyes when I ripped away from him forever.

The dam breaks

I cry. For the first time in four years, I cry. Severe sobbing sounds escape from my mouth as I bury my head in my hands. Already, my eyes sting and burn, but I don't care. I'm finally crying.

I cry for Alli, my best friend who I let slip away.

I cry for Adam, who will never get to live in the right body.

I cry for Eli, who went through more loss than most people can ever imagine.

I cry for my dad, the broken man who will never get to see his daughter's face again.

And I cry for me. The daughter of that broken man. The girl who drowned in secrets and lost herself in a sea of bruises. The girl that can barely identify herself and doesn't even want to.

The girl who got beaten.

But somewhere beneath the exterior of all the pain and agony, there was another reason for my tears. It wasn't happiness or joy or even relief. It was a feeling of finally being able to do something in my life I was never able to do before. And maybe I don't know exactly where I'm headed, but as I let in a wave of oxygen and look up to face my destiny, I get a slight glimpse of what that something may be.

**BREATHE**


	20. Cheesy AN

Hello everyone! Okay, so Just Breathe is officially finished. Even though my story has mountains of flaws and is miles away from perfection, I finished it, and I love it, so I won't be complaining.

I cannot tell you guys enough just how much I adore all of you. Every single one of you. I walked into this story hoping to get say...2 reviews per chapter, and I walk out with about 16! That is, above and beyond, the most incredible accomplishment for me. I finally understand that when actors and singers and authors say they love their fans, they actually mean it. Because I love you guys so freaking much.

I was going to give out numerous shout-outs, but I realized that it would take me an hour to say all of the people who made me smile. So if you have an account, and I sent you a message thanking you for your review(s), then this shout out is for you!But seriously, certain people who I message ALL THE TIME (you know who you are!) this is a double shout out for you!

I will give two people a shout out:

ANONYMOUS: I could never send you a message thanking you for your reviews that literally made me squeal. But I can now. Thank you nineteen times in a row, each time for each chapter. You are such a fabulous person for giving a hear-felt opinion on every chapter, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

A Few Sentences Short Of A Paragraph- Yeah, I had trouble writing that haha, and had to space it because it wouldn't let me put your pen name or whatever. But I want to thank you for helping me out with my new story by giving me that "idea" (I am using PR by the way. Public Relations is what you meant, right? If so, I'm using it!) And for always taking your time to praise me while giving me criticism at the same time. I took what you said into consideration, and hopefully it paid off. Hopefully we'll keep talking during my next story!

One thing I must say. Who read WILLOW by Julia Hoban? That book is just...I don't have words. The most painful, depressing, beautiful, hopeful, emotional book I have ever read. Don't let the 3rd person throw you off. I don't usually prefer it, because I like being able to get into the character's head, but somehow the 3rd person allowed me to connect with Willow in a way I rarely ever connect with a character. And Guy? He is as good as Eli. Shocking, right? But I am IN LOVE.

If you have read Willow, feel free to tell me how much you enjoyed it (how could you not) And if you haven't, well go do it! =) Odds are if you like the genre I write, then you'll like Willow as well. Ever read Julie Anne Peters? (By The Time You Read This I'll Be Dead and Luna) You'll LOVE Julia Hoban. It's her first book, and I hope it's not her last.

Okay, onto the good stuff. MY NEW STORY! I already wrote part of the first chapter, but it well...I'm not quite sure about it yet. But I think it will be better than Just Breathe, just because I have a great grip on it and am truly going to work hard to make it as real as possible. It will be long, probably longer than this story, but you guys don't mind, right?

SUMMARY:

**Dealing with death is hard. Dealing with suicide is even worse. But for Clare Edward's, she doesn't deal at all. Following her mother's actions, she shuts out the fact that her beautiful older sister Darcy has killed herself, and even more so to the reason behind it. Keeping old friends away and resisting new ones from ever coming in, Clare might as well be in her own little world. And in a way, she is.**

**Her anger for such a tragic loss is aimed at every person who passes by, but the main target is the victim herself. Darcy becomes all flaws in Clare's mind; stupid, self-fish, weak, not able to handle what life throws at her. But is that really what Clare thinks? Because somewhere deep inside of her, she feels the reason behind Darcy's suicide itching at her skin. And maybe, with the help of Alli, a perky girl whose only need is to make the people around her feel better, and Adam, whose old self-destructive habits and suicidal thoughts remind Clare of her own sister, and Eli, with his nagging question and refusal to back down at her bitter hatred, Clare will be able to free herself from the past that holds her back from ever moving on.**

What do you guys think? I remember the exact moment I came up with this idea. I was in the car with my dad, and it was the day after a rain-storm, where the whole world is damp and dead. During that time I had not yet finished reading "By The Time You Read This I'll Be Dead", and as always, my mind wondered to it. I thought of Daelyn, planning her suicide, counting down until DOD (day of determination) and how she just figured that her family would move on after a time period of painful grieving. But my question was, what does happen to the family? How do you get over something like that? Look back on past events, all those times you could sense something was wrong but was too afraid to ask, and wonder, what if I had said something? What if I knocked on your door when I heard you crying? What if I didn't let you push me away without telling me what was wrong? What if you weren't dead?

And bam. I had my story idea. What If is the hardest question in the world to answer, becasue there is no answer that doesn't punch you in the stomach. But it is something we ask ourselves everyday. Even in the most simplest situations. What if I hadn't forgotton my purse in social studies? What if I did my hair a little better? What if I looked over that one question on the review sheet before taking the test?

It's really a question not worth answering, yet we find ourselves repeating it over and over again. That's kind of the theme of this story. Clare finds herself so lost in all these flashbacks and what ifs that she loses touch with the most important aspect of all. Reality.

Tell me in your reviews what you think of my new idea. Eli is a main character, but this story is really about Clare, and even her family. Her mother and Clare both block everything out, Clare by refusing to truly let anyone in, and her mother by drowning herself in something that there's never enough time for; work. While as Clare's father is desperately trying to get something, anything, out of the family he has left, causes a clash in the family. Darcy won't be mentioned much upon the Edward's family, but I want it to be like you can feel the situation's presence in everything they do.

LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE. I know! And I'm sorry! But this was important. Once again, you guys mean so much to me, and I hope you all read my next story, but if you don't, I still thank you for all you've done with this one.

P.S.- I won't be writing an epilogue for Just Breathe, only for the fact that I feel like the door for this story is completely shut. Anything else I write for it will just be for the sake of assurance, something I don't think a story has to have. But I do appreciate your requests for it.

P.S. P.S.- If you would like to, could you read KaitlynxNicole's story, Accidently In Lust? It's not out yet but will be coming soon! She is awesome and you won't be disappointed!

HAPPY KAITLYN! Haha, now you need to go and request me just so were even =)


End file.
